Read Online The Present by Johanna Lindsey - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Johanna Lindsey
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repeat it once again.
Whipple was a portly, middle-aged man who had come with the estate, and Christopher had found no reason, really, to replace him. As long as the estate produced an income, which it did, he could hardly fault him, even if some of the expenses he incurred could boggle the mind. He did always have a ready excuse for them. But some were so outlandish, they demanded questioning.
"Fifty pounds for laborers to plow and plant the home farm? Did you ship them in from the Americas?"
Whipple noted the sarcasm and blushed uncomfortably.
"They were outrageously overpriced, yes, but it's getting increasingly more difficult to find farmers to work here. There's a silly rumor that Haverston is haunted and that's why you won't stay in residence."
Christopher rolled his eyes. "What rubbish."
"Oh, I say," Walter Keats interjected. "First interesting thing I've heard since we got here. Who's the haunter supposed to be?"
Walter, the youngest of the three friends at twenty-eight, was the one who abhorred the thought of marriage. His powdered wig was askew at the moment, after an itch had been scratched absentmindedly. Though wigs, and powered ones at that, were mostly worn only on formal occasions these days, Walter took his cue from the older aristocracy and didn't leave his dressing room without one. Fact was, it was vanity and nothing more, since his dull brown hair didn't give him quite the flair that a perfectly powered wig did, coupled with his vivid green eyes.
"Who?" Whipple asked the young lord with a blank look, as if he hadn't expected his reason to be dissected, and in fact, Christopher rarely did question him further on any of his given excuses.
"Yes, who?" Walter persisted, putting the manager on the spot. "If a place is haunted, stands to reason someone is doing the haunting, now don't it?"
Whipple's blush increased as he said stiffly, "I really wouldn't know, Lord Keats. I don't give much credence to peasant superstition."
"Nor does it matter," Christopher added. "There are no ghosts here."
Walter sighed. "You're such a stick, Kit. If my home had history, as in the blood and gore type, I'd bloody well want to know it."
"I don't consider this my home, Walter."
"Whyever not?"
Christopher gave a careless shrug. "The town house in London has always been my home. This place is just a place—a chore."
David Rutherford, not as plump in the pockets as his two friends, shook his head. "Who but Kit would consider a place like this just a place. It does look a bit drab, I'll allow, but it's got such potential."
David, at thirty, wasn't quite as bored yet with life as Christopher was at thirty-two. He was handsome by any standards with his black hair and very light blue eyes, and most of his interests these days were centered around women, though he was game to try anything new, and especially anything that sounded the least bit adventurous or dangerous.
Christopher wished he felt the same, but he had developed a strange ennui this last year and couldn't seem to find any interest in anything. He had come to realize that he was bored with all aspects of his life. It was a boredom that was beginning to weigh heavily on his mind.
With his parents dying when he was quite young, and having no other relatives, he had been raised by the family solicitor and servants, who perhaps gave him a different outlook on things. He did not find amusing what his friends did. Actually, he found very little about his life amusing anymore, which was why his boredom had become so noticeable.
"Whatever potential Haverston has would depend on time and inclination," Christopher replied tiredly.
"You've got the time," Walter pointed out. "So it must be lack of inclination."
"Exactly," Christopher said with a pointed look that he hoped would end the discussion, but just to be sure, he added, "Now, if you two don't mind, I do have work to do here. I'd like to return to London before autumn."
Since that
Whipple was a portly, middle-aged man who had come with the estate, and Christopher had found no reason, really, to replace him. As long as the estate produced an income, which it did, he could hardly fault him, even if some of the expenses he incurred could boggle the mind. He did always have a ready excuse for them. But some were so outlandish, they demanded questioning.
"Fifty pounds for laborers to plow and plant the home farm? Did you ship them in from the Americas?"
Whipple noted the sarcasm and blushed uncomfortably.
"They were outrageously overpriced, yes, but it's getting increasingly more difficult to find farmers to work here. There's a silly rumor that Haverston is haunted and that's why you won't stay in residence."
Christopher rolled his eyes. "What rubbish."
"Oh, I say," Walter Keats interjected. "First interesting thing I've heard since we got here. Who's the haunter supposed to be?"
Walter, the youngest of the three friends at twenty-eight, was the one who abhorred the thought of marriage. His powdered wig was askew at the moment, after an itch had been scratched absentmindedly. Though wigs, and powered ones at that, were mostly worn only on formal occasions these days, Walter took his cue from the older aristocracy and didn't leave his dressing room without one. Fact was, it was vanity and nothing more, since his dull brown hair didn't give him quite the flair that a perfectly powered wig did, coupled with his vivid green eyes.
"Who?" Whipple asked the young lord with a blank look, as if he hadn't expected his reason to be dissected, and in fact, Christopher rarely did question him further on any of his given excuses.
"Yes, who?" Walter persisted, putting the manager on the spot. "If a place is haunted, stands to reason someone is doing the haunting, now don't it?"
Whipple's blush increased as he said stiffly, "I really wouldn't know, Lord Keats. I don't give much credence to peasant superstition."
"Nor does it matter," Christopher added. "There are no ghosts here."
Walter sighed. "You're such a stick, Kit. If my home had history, as in the blood and gore type, I'd bloody well want to know it."
"I don't consider this my home, Walter."
"Whyever not?"
Christopher gave a careless shrug. "The town house in London has always been my home. This place is just a place—a chore."
David Rutherford, not as plump in the pockets as his two friends, shook his head. "Who but Kit would consider a place like this just a place. It does look a bit drab, I'll allow, but it's got such potential."
David, at thirty, wasn't quite as bored yet with life as Christopher was at thirty-two. He was handsome by any standards with his black hair and very light blue eyes, and most of his interests these days were centered around women, though he was game to try anything new, and especially anything that sounded the least bit adventurous or dangerous.
Christopher wished he felt the same, but he had developed a strange ennui this last year and couldn't seem to find any interest in anything. He had come to realize that he was bored with all aspects of his life. It was a boredom that was beginning to weigh heavily on his mind.
With his parents dying when he was quite young, and having no other relatives, he had been raised by the family solicitor and servants, who perhaps gave him a different outlook on things. He did not find amusing what his friends did. Actually, he found very little about his life amusing anymore, which was why his boredom had become so noticeable.
"Whatever potential Haverston has would depend on time and inclination," Christopher replied tiredly.
"You've got the time," Walter pointed out. "So it must be lack of inclination."
"Exactly," Christopher said with a pointed look that he hoped would end the discussion, but just to be sure, he added, "Now, if you two don't mind, I do have work to do here. I'd like to return to London before autumn."
Since that
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