3: Harebell Hall

There were few people in Lord Percy's circle so tactless as to inquire how he, of all candidates, had come to be named Sir Gerald Maitland's heir, and this was just as well, since, if pressed on the matter, Percy could not have supplied an answer.

Childless himself, Sir Gerald had nonetheless rejoiced in six nephews and three nieces, and, as all of these had married and produced children, he'd had no dearth of young relations upon whom to bestow his estate. Even granted the doubtful proposition that Percy's mother had been his favorite niece, there still remained the question as to why, of her three sons and two daughters, Sir Gerald's choice had fallen on Percy. Asked if she could recall any incident or circumstance which might account for this odd show of favor, her Grace, the Duchess of Clairborne, had had nothing more useful to suggest than that Sir Gerald had put everyone's name in a hat and picked Percy's out at random.

His siblings and cousins had been generous enough not to resent his good fortune, and, indeed, had congratulated him on it. They might have felt differently if he'd made a concerted push to ingratiate himself with Sir Gerald, but, as he'd taken no such trouble, they had no more cause to reproach him than if he'd won a lottery. They were all, besides, well-provided-for, with incomes more than sufficient to their needs, and, in some cases, as with Arthur, heir-apparent to the Clairborne dukedom, possessed of far greater expectations than a rundown estate in Yorkshire.

That it was a seedy property going to wrack and ruin was generally accepted as true in the family, although, Sir Gerald having discouraged any and all visitors in his later years, no one had first-hand knowledge as to the actual state of affairs. Reports filtered back of all but a few of the manor's rooms being closed off and unused, of the domestic staff being reduced to a bare minimum, and of formerly well-tended gardens being left to revert to nature. In stark contrast to this neglect, the stable complex was held to be kept in excellent repair, the buildings and paddocks undergoing regular improvements, and a large contingent of trainers, grooms and stable lads retained to tend the horses. It was said of Sir Gerald that he cared more for his thoroughbreds' comfort than his own, and, to the detriment of his house and grounds, devoted the bulk of his income to providing them with the best in accommodation, fodder and handling.

Forearmed with this intelligence, Percy had set off for Harebell with some trepidation and so had been agreeably surprised by his first sight of the Hall. A two-story stone structure raised above a basement level, it was a manor of only moderate size with, nonetheless, a stately air thanks to its graceful proportions and the imposing classical portico at the heart of its facade. It was accessed by a rutted drive and through a dreary, featureless park, but its windows had shone invitingly against the oncoming dusk, welcome proof it was inhabited and their arrival expected.

As arranged, Mr. Reed, Sir Gerald's lawyer, had been on hand to receive them along with a Mr. and Mrs. Peckham, an elderly couple introduced as Harebell's soon-to-be-retiring butler and housekeeper. As a last service to the estate, they had agreed to stay on through the end of Percy's visit and had managed the veritable troop of maids and handymen engaged to refresh a number of rooms. The cleaning, Mr. Reed was pleased to report, had been thorough and vigorous, but, owing to time and manpower constraints, had necessarily been limited in scope, leaving much of the house in the neglected state to which it had been reduced. He recommended that, for the evening at least, they confine themselves to the east wing apartments which, having been in continuous use, were in the best repair. As for the guest bedrooms, he felt obliged to warn them that, having long gone shut up and unheated, they retained a regrettably musty odor despite having being well aired, and that the furnishings, carpets and drapes, being sadly out-dated and worn, were likely not at all what they were used to. Worst of all, the chimneys, not having been thoroughly swept in some time, weren't drawing well and showed a tendency to smoke.

Having delivered himself of these caveats, Mr. Reed saw them supplied with refreshments, and, over a glass of sherry, assured them that Mrs. Morris, Sir Gerald's long-time cook, was for the moment still presiding over the kitchen, and, ably assisted by additional staff, had preparations for their dinner well in hand. Percy pressed him to stay and dine, but he declined, claiming a previous engagement, and promised to return on the morrow to conduct them over the house and grounds.

Mr. Reed's disinclination to share their meal evoked a certain disquiet as to Mrs. Morris' culinary skills, but, if the fare was plain and rustic — a hearty stew, pork pie, boiled vegetable sides, stewed fruit and steamed pudding — that was all there was to complain of in it. In addition, Sir Gerald's cellars produced several bottles of very good wine, including a remarkable port over which the gentlemen lingered before rejoining the ladies in the drawing room.

They found Callie ensconced in a chair by the fire leafing idly through a book while Enid stood contemplating the portrait hanging in pride of place above the mantle. She turned at Percy's approach, and asked him, "What do you think, brother? Is it her?"

"Lady Harriet?" He considered the rosy-cheeked young woman with her proud carriage, mass of chestnut hair, candid gaze, and sweet expression. "I don't see how it could be."

"The fashion's right for the era, though — that enormous, broad-brimmed hat, the loose curls, the gauzy dress…"

George came up to stand on Enid's other side. "Who's Lady Harriet?"

"Sir Gerald's wife."

"Wife?" he echoed. "Was the old boy married, then? This is the first I've heard of it."

"Yes, well, it was rather a disastrous marriage."

"Oooh!" Callie closed her book with a snap and set it aside. "Were they horribly ill-suited? Do tell!"

Enid retreated to a settee, and, her husband settling down beside her, she began, "They were happy enough at first, the story goes. They married for love, supposedly on both sides, though of a certainty on Lady Harriet's as she, apparently, had an embarrassment of suitors, most of them of a far more exalted rank than a viscount's second son. She was pretty rather than beautiful, but by all accounts so vivacious and good-natured, she was the most sought-after debutante of her season."

"And an heiress into the bargain," Percy put in. He consulted Enid with a look. "If I remember right, Lady Harriet brought Harebell Hall to the marriage."

"Yes, and I forget how many thousands of pounds per annum."

"So…" Simon lowered himself into an armchair, and, stretching out his long legs, crossed them at the ankles. "They had the Holy Grail of matrimony: love and money. Where'd they go wrong?"

"Sir Gerald wasn't faithful. Her name was Victorine, I think."

"The beast!" Callie gasped, even as Enid scolded, "Percy!" She turned to her cousin and explained, "Victorine was a horse, the first of Sir Gerald's to show promise on the track. He'd been bitten by the racing bug, you see, and become obsessed with breeding a champion. He had great hopes of Victorine's producing a Derby winner, and devoted a great deal of time to her care."

"To the neglect of Lady Harriet," George surmised.

"Unfortunately. She made the best of it for a while, but increasingly his world revolved around the Turf, and she grew bored and restless. She was used to being the toast of the ton, and having no end of diversions to amuse her. For an outgoing sort as she was, there was not nearly enough society here in Yorkshire to make up for Sir Gerald's neglect."

"I suppose," Simon drawled, "you're going to tell us next she consoled herself by taking lovers."

"I hope she may have!" Callie said. "It would've served Sir Gerald right!"

"Well, as it happens, she did run off with a man in the end, but, before that, you might say she left Sir Gerald in stages. One year, she took in the London Season without him, the next year, she spent the spring in town and the summer making the rounds of her friends' country estates. The third year, she tacked on an autumn trip to the Continent as well. It wasn't until the fourth year that she sailed off with a former suitor. They emigrated to America — Philadelphia, or some such place — and lived there openly as man and wife."

At this juncture, the butler put in an appearance with the tea tray, and Percy, taking advantage, asked, "Peckham, this portrait…" He gestured to the painting. "What can you tell us about it?"

Peckham drew his hunched shoulders back, and replied in round tones, "That, my lord, is Sir Gerald's late wife, Lady Harriet, or Miss Harriet Sackille as she was then. It was commissioned by her guardian, the Bishop of Durham, to mark her eighteenth birthday and was gifted to the couple on the occasion of their marriage. The artist was one Thomas Gainsborough, a leading painter of the day."

At this prestigious name, they all turned back to the painting with new respect. It was Callie who broke the silence to confirm, "His late wife, did you say, Peckham?"

"Yes, my lady. Lady Harriet was on an extended visit to the United States when, regrettably, she contracted yellow fever and passed. Her… ah… traveling companion was, likewise, taken ill and perished."

"How tragic," Callie murmured.

"Indeed." He bowed and made to withdraw, but Percy stopped him with, "As a matter of curiosity, Peckham, do you know: has the painting always graced this spot?"

Peckham shifted uneasily from foot to foot. "Er… no, my lord. It was removed some years ago to an interior room to better preserve its colors, but lately, the painting that normally hangs there having been damaged by too rough a cleaning, it was thought, the paintings being of similar size, to hang the portrait in its place."

"I see. Thank you, Peckham."

"Preserve its colors, my hat!" Simon scoffed when Peckham had departed. "It's plain as day Sir Gerald had the painting banished to the attics, and he no sooner died than the staff restored it to its proper place."

"Only fitting," George observed. "House was hers to begin with, after all. Now, who's for cards? Anyone?"

They had settled to playing whist, all but Simon who, never able to sit for very long, wandered the room examining the other paintings and idly fingering such statuettes and curios as were on display. When the fire burned low, rather than calling to have it built up, they made an early night of it and retired. Over their tepid objections, Percy had surrendered the master suite to his sister and brother-in-law, and, having ascertained which of the remaining bedchambers was likely to be the least comfortable, had taken that room for himself, with the result that he woke in the middle of the night to find the fire out, the stench of smoke in his nostrils, and the chamber glacially cold. He'd bundled himself into his heavy wool dressing gown, and burrowed back under the covers, but even then had only been just barely warm.

It had pained him to think his guests might have suffered an equally wretched night, and so he'd been relieved when they appeared at breakfast in cheerful spirits and claimed to have slept very well, or as well as could be expected in unfamiliar surroundings (Enid) and on a slightly lumpy mattress (Callie). Simon was the only one to admit to having lain awake for some time, disturbed, as he was careful to explain out of the ladies' hearing, by the scrabbling sounds emanating from the walls and which, happily for the others, were too faint for anyone without his supernormal hearing to detect.

True to his word, Mr. Reed returned bright and early, prepared to show Percy over the property and put him in possession of all pertinent information relating to the estate. He was disconcerted to discover that the ladies intended to join the tour, and strongly advised against it, but as they refused to be discouraged, he had to make do with their promise to exercise the greatest caution as to how and where they stepped.

They explored the ground floor first, trailing Mr. Reed through a sequence of reception rooms which had once been grand and elegant but were now sadly decayed. The furniture not having been draped in Holland covers, the tables, chairs and cabinets of a by-gone era wore a coating of gray dust, the fine upholstery fabrics faded by the sun and frayed. Cobwebs festooned the walls and hung from chandeliers while the once-exquisite Chinese wallpapers were dingy with age and peeling in places. The floors were gritty underfoot, strewn with paint and plaster chips and what looked, in some corners, suspiciously like mouse droppings. Cracks snaked ominously across the moldings and ceilings, and, in the formal drawing room, there were disfiguring gaps in the plasterwork where chunks had already worked loose and come down.

Such dereliction was dispiriting to see, but, as it was mostly cosmetic and could be set to rights at fairly moderate expense, Percy felt rather more heartened than not. His relief, however, proved to be short-lived for on the second floor the damage was of an entirely different order. In what had once been a sitting room, the walls were liberally splotched with black mold, the wallpaper water-stained and flaking, and, most alarmingly, a large section of the ceiling had collapsed, exposing the wood lath above. The culprit for all this ruin was the roof which had, apparently, been leaking for some time, but as the west wing had been largely abandoned, the damage had only very recently come to light. How extensive it might be had as yet to be determined, but in the adjoining rooms, at least, the ceilings were bowing noticeably and further cave-ins might be imminent. It went without saying that until an assessment could be made and repairs effected, the rooms had to be deemed unsafe.

This was the worst bit of news but not the last. There were rotten stair treads that needed replacing, drafty windows to be re-glazed, a kitchen to be modernized before any self-respecting cook would take it on, a formal garden to be reclaimed from the weeds, and so on and on until Percy was quite sunk in gloom.

Lunch was, consequently, a somber affair. Callie and Enid tactfully steered the conversation away from the house, and inquired instead into the make-up of the neighborhood and the area's points of interest, subjects upon which Mr. Reed was well-versed and pleased to discourse on at length. In this way, the meal passed off satisfactorily, and, somewhat restored, they donned coats and cloaks and set off again, this time for the stable block.

Built on a small rise and screened by a stand of trees, nothing of this complex could be seen from the house except for its clock tower, and it was thus with no little surprise that they emerged from the wood to discover an imposing stone building of so grand a design, it might almost have been mistaken for a second manor house. A wide two-story quadrangle, it featured a central pavilion rising nobly over an entry arch, and a neat, cobbled courtyard beyond. They had only to step into the building and look about them to see at a glance that it was everything the manor was not: orderly, clean, up-to-date, and bustling with the activity of men and boys going purposefully about their tasks. After his dreadful morning, it was a sight to lift Percy's spirits.

A man came forward to greet them, and was introduced as Prentiss, the stable master. He took over as guide from Mr. Reed, and proceeded, with an air of quiet pride, to show them over the premises. It was a pride well-deserved in Percy's view. The operation was faultless: the loose boxes of the highest quality materials, luxurious in size and heaped with beds of fragrant straw, the tack and saddle rooms both admirably organized and neat with every bridle, bit and stirrup in its place, the provender room well-stocked and aromatic with bins of various root crops and sweet-smelling grains. The careful management extended even to the grounds where the walkways were raked level and smooth, and the paddocks securely enclosed by stout wooden fencing. On the second floor, the grooms' quarters, being roomy and bright, put the servants' cramped basement accommodations to shame. Best of all, though, were the horses themselves, all meticulously groomed and well-nourished, from the carriage horses and hacks in their wing to the glossy thoroughbreds in theirs.

That Prentiss had a soft spot for his princely charges, and they for him was evident in the way the horses poked their heads out of their boxes at his approach and received a loving stroke or pat in greeting. For each horse in its turn, Prentiss supplied a short history, naming not only its dam and sire, but every illustrious ancestor in its line of descent. One majestic fellow came in for a particularly affectionate rub, and Prentiss, when it was remarked on, admitted that Vickers, as the stallion was known, was a personal favorite and had held a special place in Sir Gerald's heart as well. "He's a direct descendent of Victorine — Sir Gerald's all-time favorite — and, like her, he had great speed as a two-year-old. Won every race he entered going away, but then he developed acute laminitis and had to retire from the track. There was some talk of putting him down, but Sir Gerald wouldn't hear of it, and with time and a good deal of care he recovered. Since then, he's sired some impressive offspring of his own. One of them, name of Speedwell, is slated to run in this year's Derby."

When, the tour over, it came time to take their leave, Percy could not forebear sticking out his hand and giving Prentiss' a hearty shake. "I commend you, sir. This is nothing short of a showplace. I've never seen its like."

Prentiss fairly beamed with pleasure. "Thank you, my lord. Sir Gerald was always one for keeping us to the highest standards, and it's a matter of some pride with us to meet them." His smile faltered then, and he continued with less assurance, "I suppose you can't say as yet what your plans might be, that is, whether you mean for things to carry on as before, or whether we're to expect changes, specifically a cut back in the number of horses and staff? I hope you'll forgive the question, my lord. It's just the uncertainty…"

"I quite understand, and I promise not to leave you in suspense any longer than necessary."

"Thank you, my lord. In the meantime, should you have further questions, I'm at your disposal. And, of course, should you or your guests wish to ride while you're here, we'll be happy to accommodate you."

Over the remainder of their stay, Simon and George took advantage of this offer, but Enid and Callie were put off by the cold, and Percy himself was too busy. Between inspecting the home and dependent farms, getting acquainted with his tenants, and being closeted for hours with Mr. Reed and his account books, Percy had only the evenings to call his own, and by then he was physically and mentally drained. His companions seemed to appreciate his need for a diversion, and, though curious and concerned, didn't press him to confide in them.

He repaid their patience by putting them in the picture as soon as he was in full command of it himself. "Here's how things stand," he told them, as they sat one evening gathered round the drawing room fire. "Under normal circumstances, and with good management, the estate generates enough in rents to support itself very comfortably with, in good years, enough funds left over to make improvements and procure some of life's luxuries. The last twenty years, though, the management's been anything but sound. Sir Gerald spent most of his income on the stable and horses, and let the house and grounds deteriorate. The bill for decades of neglect has now come due, and, not surprisingly, the cost to put things right is more than the estate can bear. If I'm to get started on the repairs — and there are some, like the roof, that can't wait — I'm going to have to raise the money."

"Any idea how much you'll need?" George asked.

Percy shook his head. "That's the devil of it. Depending on how much structural damage there is, I could be in for several hundred pounds or several thousand. My pockets aren't to let, but they're not so deep that I can afford that kind of outlay."

"Sir Gerald left no cash reserves?"

"None to speak of. Apparently, it was his practice to spend every farthing of his income every year. On top of that, last year's rents were down because the harvest was so poor. It's a wonder I didn't inherit a mortgage."

"What about assets you could sell?" Simon ventured. "Any parcels of land you could part with?"

"Without compromising the estate's finances? One or two, but, again, because the crop failed last year, land values are depressed just now, and I'm not likely to realize more than half of what they're worth, if that."

"There are the horses," Callie said, with obvious reluctance.

"Yes, and they might fetch good money, but selling them would mean dismantling what Sir Gerald spent his lifetime building, and throwing a lot of men out of work besides, not to mention I'd be left with a mostly-empty stable on my hands. No, Reed suggested, and I agree, that it's worth trying to save the operation. His idea is I should sell a stake in the horses, ideally to a single individual and up to a full and equal share. That would have the advantage of putting some money in my coffers while still preserving the operation and the revenue it generates."

"It turns a profit, then?" George said.

"It… pays for itself," Percy answered, carefully. "And it could be made to bring in more if it's run with greater economy. There's plenty of fat to cut."

"And if an investor fails to materialize?" Simon asked.

"In that event, I expect I could sell some of my Consols…"

"Oh, Percy!" Enid cried. "Surely not! Better you should ask Father for an advance on your inheritance!"

"Or better still," George said, "you should sell the place for whatever you can get and wash your hands of it! What do you want with taking all the risk and expense on your shoulders? You don't owe it to Sir Gerald, and it's not as though you need a house, especially not in the wilds of Yorkshire. If you take my advice, you'll sell this albatross, pocket the proceeds, and, in five or ten years when you're ready to settle down, put the money toward a solid, well-kept property."

Percy smiled a touch wryly. "I daresay that's good advice, George, and it may well come down to my selling in the end, but I'm contrary enough not to want to admit defeat before I've even started. This estate was once one of the finest in the county, and it's premature, I think, to dismiss it as not being worth the investment. I'd like at least to give restoring it a try before throwing up my hands."

"It's a gamble," Simon agreed, "but one that could pay off handsomely."

They fell to discussing other avenues for raising funds. Enid proposed rummaging through the house's cupboards and attics for potentially valuable antiques. Along those same lines, Simon observed that the artwork in the room, all paintings or bronzes of horses, might bring a considerable price, particularly as two of the works were by Stubbs, the acknowledged master of the genre. George, perhaps tongue-in-cheek, had just volunteered to check the library shelves for any rare first editions when Callie suddenly straightened, and broke into a grin. "I have it! The very thing!"

Her brother regarded her warily. "Which is…?"

"Why, that Percy should marry an heiress, of course!" This being met with groans and adjurations to be serious, she insisted that she was; in part. "Not to be crass, but you could if you chose, Percy, look about you for a wealthy wife. After all, it's a fairly standard fix for money troubles. From that point of view, your not being married has to count as a sort of asset, one that, like selling a share in the horses, you can exploit financially."

George gaped at her with mingled awe and admiration. "What a mercenary mind you have!"

She shrugged. "It's the unvarnished truth."

"And you make a good point," Percy allowed. "It is a solution, but not one I'm inclined to stoop to."

Callie gave a curt nod. "Still," she persisted, "you might keep an open mind. As they say, it's as easy to fall in love with a rich girl as a poor one. Who's to say you might not lose your heart to one of this season's debutantes if you troubled to survey the field?"

"Oh, yes, Percy!" Enid chimed in. "Only think how convenient it would be if you should form an attachment to a well-dowered girl! Your worries would be over!"

"And don't overlook," Simon put in, "the pleasure it would give your sister and mine to play matchmaker."

Callie sniffed. "Poke fun if you must, Simon, but we could be of assistance. We might…"

"No!" Percy said hurriedly, and then, with less force, "No. I appreciate the offer, but I am not - repeat not - in the market for a wife. That's my final word on the subject, so, let's talk of something else."

The ladies shared a look, some message passing between them. At last, Enid said, far too sweetly, "Very well. We'll say no more about it," the for now very clearly implied.