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To Gwen's surprise, Will didn't leave. He returned to the house and went to his room.
He'd made no further attempt to mount a horse while he was drunk, which she supposed, put him above her late husband, in terms of intelligence, she thought.
For the rest of the day, he kept to his room, presumably sleeping, although it was possible, he was continuing to pickle himself in strong spirits.
He didn't come downstairs for dinner either, only requested that a tray be brought up to him.
In response to the girls' concerned inquiries, Gwen told them curtly, that their cousin had taken ill, and would probably return to London in the morning.
When Bia opened her mouth to ask questions, it was Cassandra who quelled her with a quiet murmur. And Gwen sent her a grateful glance.
As unworldly as Cassandra might be, she was quite familiar with the kind of man who drank to excess and lost his head.
At daybreak, when Gwen went down to the breakfast room, she was shocked to find Will sitting at one of the round tables, staring morosely into the depths of a teacup.
He looked ghastly, the skin under his eyes pleated, his complexion pallid and damp.
"Good morning," she murmured, taken aback. "Are you ill?"
He gave her a bleary glance, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, in his gray complexion.
"Only if one considers sobriety to be an illness. Which I do."
Gwen went to the sideboard, took up a pair of silver tongs, and began to heap bacon on a piece of toast.
She placed another piece of toast on top, cut the sandwich neatly in two, and brought the plate to Will.
"Eat this," she said. "Lord Gemswick always said, that a bacon sandwich was the best cure for the morning after."
Will regarded the offering with loathing, but picked up a piece and bit into it, while she made herself breakfast.
Sitting next to him, Gwen asked quietly,
"Shall I have the carriage readied in time for you, to catch the late morning train?"
"I'm afraid you won't be that fortunate." Will took a swallow of tea. "I can't go back to London. I have to stay in Hampshire, until I've met with all the tenants I had planned to visit."
"Mr. Pendragon..."
"I have to," he said doggedly. "My brother never asks anything of me. Which is why I'll do this, even if it kills me."
Gwen glanced at him in surprise.
"Very well," she said after a moment. "Shall we send for Mr. Carleon to accompany you?"
"I rather hoped that you would go with me." Seeing her expression, Will added warily, "Only for today."
"Mr. Carleon is far more familiar with the tenants and their situations..."
"His presence may prove to be inhibiting. I want them to speak to me frankly." He glared at his plate. "Not that I expect more than a half-dozen words from any of them. I know what that sort thinks of me...a city toff. A great useless peacock, who knows nothing about the superior virtues of farm life."
"I don't think they'll judge you severely, so long as they believe that you're not judging them. Just try to be sincere, and you should have no difficulty."
"I have no talent for sincerity," he muttered.
"It's not a talent," Gwen said. "It's a willingness to speak from your heart, rather than trying to be amusing or evasive."
"Please," Will said tersely. "I'm already nauseous." Scowling, he took another bite of the bacon sandwich.
Gwen was pleased to see, that despite Will's expectation of being treated with insolence, if not outright contempt, by the tenants, the first one he encountered, was quite cordial.
Joseph Strickland was a middle-aged man, stocky and muscular, with kind eyes, set in a large square face.
His land, which he farmed with the help of three sons, was a smallholding of approximately sixty acres.
Gwen and Will met him at his cottage, a ramshackle structure, propped next to a large barn, where corn was threshed and stored.
Livestock were kept in a tumbledown collection of sheds, that had been built without plan, and placed with apparent randomness around a yard, where manure was liquefied by water running from un-spouted roofs.
"I'm pleased to meet you, sir," the tenant farmer said, gripping his hat in his hands. "I'm wondering if you and the good lady, would mind just walking a piece with me into the field. We could talk while I work. The oats have to be cut and brought in before the rain comes back."
"What if they're not harvested in time?" Will asked.
"Too much grain will shed on the ground," Strickland replied. "Once the grain is good and plump, even a gust of high wind could shake it loose from the chaff. We'd lose as much as a third."
As Will glanced at Gwen, she nodded slightly, to convey her willingness.
They walked out into the field, where the feathery tops of the gold-green oats grew as tall as Will's shoulder.
Gwen enjoyed the dusty-sweet smell of the air, as a pair of men mowed through the crop with wickedly sharp scythes.
Two gatherers followed to bind cut stalks into sheaves. And after that, bandsters tied the sheaves into stooks, and a young boy cleared loose straw with stubble rakes.
"How much can a man cut in a day?" Will asked, while Strickland squatted to deftly bind a sheaf.
"The best scythe-man I've seen, can cut two acres in a day. But that's oats, which is faster than other grain."
Will glanced at the laborers speculatively.
"What if you had a reaping machine?"
"The kind with a binder attachment?" Strickland removed his hat and scratched his head. "A dozen acres or more, I'd reckon."
"In one day? And how many laborers would you need to operate it?"
"Two men and a horse."
"Two men producing at least six times the result?" Will looked incredulous. "Why don't you buy a mechanical reaper?"
Strickland snorted.
"Because, it would cost twenty-five pounds or more."
"But it would pay for itself before long."
"I can't afford horses and a machine."
Frowning, Will watched as Strickland finished tying a sheaf.
"I'll help you catch up with the mowers, if you show me how to do that," he said.
The farmer glanced at his tailored clothes.
"You're not dressed for field work, sir."
"I insist," Will said, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it to Gwen. "With any luck, I'll develop a callus to show people afterwards."
He squatted beside Strickland, who showed him how to cinch a band around the top of the straw.
"Just under the grain and not too tight," the farmer cautioned, so that when sheaves were stood on end and bound together, there was enough room between stalks to allow air to circulate and dry the grain faster.
Although Gwen had expected Will to tire quickly of the novelty, he was persistent and diligent, gradually gaining competence.
As they worked, he asked questions about drainage and planting, and Strickland answered in detail.
It was a surprise, the way Will's politeness, seemed to have transformed into genuine interest, in the process taking place before him.
Gwen watched him thoughtfully, finding it difficult to reconcile the drunken lout of yesterday, with this attentive, engaging stranger.
One would almost think, he gave a damn about the estate and its tenants.
At the end of the row, Will stood, dusted his hands, and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his face.
Strickland blotted his own brow with his sleeve.
"Next, I could show you how to mow," he offered cheerfully.
"Thank you, no," Will replied with a rueful grin, looking so much like Arthur, that Gwen felt a quick pang of recognition. "I'm sure I shouldn't be trusted with a sharp blade." Surveying the field speculatively, he asked, "Have you ever considered dairying, Mr. Strickland?"
"No, sir," the tenant said firmly. "Even with lower yields, there's still more profit in grain than milk or meat. There's a saying about the market...'Down horn, up corn.'"
"Perhaps that's true for now," Will said, thinking out loud. "But with all the people moving to factory towns, the demand for milk and meat will rise, and then..."
"No dairying." Strickland's tentative friendliness faded. "Not for me."
Gwen went to Will, giving him his jacket. She touched his arm lightly, to gain his attention.
"I believe Mr. Strickland fears, you may be trying to avoid paying for the drainage work," she murmured.
Will's face cleared instantly, as he understood.
"No," he said to the farmer, "You'll have the improvements as promised. In fact, Lord Pendragon has no choice in the matter. It's his legal obligation."
Strickland looked skeptical.
"Beg pardon, sir, but after so many broken promises, it's hard to put faith in another one."
Will was silent for a moment, contemplating the man's troubled expression.
"You have my word," he said, in a way, that left no room for doubt. And he extended his hand.
Gwen stared at him in surprise.
A handshake was only exchanged between close friends, or on an occasion of great significance, and then only between gentlemen of similar rank.
After a hesitation, however, Strickland reached out and took Will's hand, and they exchanged a hearty shake.
"That was well done of you," Gwen told Will, as they rode along the unpaved farm road.
She was impressed by the way he had handled himself and addressed Mr. Strickland's concerns.
"It was clever of you to put him at ease, by trying your hand at field work."
"I wasn't trying to be clever." Will seemed preoccupied. "I wanted to gain information."
"And so you did."
"I expected that this drainage issue would be easily solved," he said. "Dig some trenches, line them with clay pipes, and cover it all up."
"It doesn't sound all that complicated."
"It is. It's complicated in ways I hadn't considered." He shook his head. "Drainage is such a minor part of the problem, that it would be a waste of money to fix it, without addressing the rest."
"What is the rest?"
"I'm not even sure yet. But if we don't figure it all out, there's no hope of ever making Hampshire Priory profitable again. Or even sustaining itself."
He gave Gwen a dark glance, as she opened her mouth.
"Don't accuse me of scheming to have the estate sold."
"I wasn't," she said indignantly. "I was going to say, that as far as I can tell, the Strickland farm is more or less, in the same condition as the other tenants."
"'Down horn, up corn, my ass,'" Will muttered. "In a few short years, it's going to be 'Up horn, down corn,' and it's going to stay that way. Strickland has no idea that his world has changed for good. Even I know it, and I could hardly be more ignorant about farming."
"You think he should turn to dairying and livestock," Gwen said.
"It would be easier and more profitable, than trying to farm lowland clay."
"You may be right," she told him ruefully. "But in this part of England, breeding livestock is not considered as respectable as working the land."
"What the devil is the difference? Either way, one ends up shoveling manure." Will's attention was diverted, as his horse stumbled on a patch of rough road.
"Ease up on the reins," Gwen said. "Just give the horse more slack and let him pick his way through."
Will complied immediately.
"Would a bit more advice be unwelcome?" she dared to ask.
"Fire away."
"You tend to slouch in the saddle. That makes it difficult for you to follow the horse's motion, and it will make your back sore later. If you sit tall and relaxed...yes, like that...now you're centered."
"Thank you."
Gwen smiled, pleased by his willingness to take direction from a woman.
"You don't ride badly. With regular practice, you would be quite proficient." She paused. "I take it, you don't ride often in town?"
"No, I travel by foot or hackney."
"But your brother..." Gwen began, thinking of Arthur's assured horsemanship.
"He rides every morning. A big dapple gray, that's as mean as the devil, if it goes one day without hard exercise." Will paused. "They have that in common."
"So that's why he's is so fit," Gwen murmured.
"It doesn't stop at riding. He belongs to a pugilism club, where they batter each other senseless, in the savate style."
"What is that?"
"A kind of fighting which was developed in the streets of Old Paris. Quite vicious. My brother secretly hopes to be attacked by ruffians someday, but so far, no luck."
Gwen smiled.
"What is the reason for all of his exertion?"
"To keep his temper under control."
Her smile faded.
"Do you have a temper as well?"
Will laughed shortly.
"Without a doubt. It's only, that I prefer to drink my demons to sleep, rather than battle them."
'So did Liam,' she thought, but kept it to herself.
"I like you better sober," she said.
Will slid her an amused glance.
"It's only been half a day. Wait a bit longer, and you'll change your mind."
Gwen didn't, however.
In the fortnight that followed, he continued to remain relatively sober, limiting his drinking to a glass of wine or two at dinner.
His days were divided between visiting tenant farms, poring over rent books, reading books on agriculture, and adding page after page, to the report he was writing for Arthur.
At dinner one night, he told them of his plan to visit many more tenants, to form a comprehensive understanding of their problems.
With each new piece of information, a picture of the estate's true condition was forming...and it wasn't a pretty sight.
"On the other hand," Will concluded, "It's not altogether hopeless, as long as Arthur is doing his job."
"What is his job?" Athena asked.
"Finding capital," he told her. "A great deal of it."
"It must be difficult for a gentleman to find money without working," Bia said. "Especially, when all the criminals are trying to do the same thing."
Will drowned his grin, in his goblet of water.
"I have every faith..." he replied, "...that my brother will either outsmart the criminals, or join them." He turned his attention to Gwen. "I realized this morning, that I need to stay here a bit longer than I'd originally planned," he said. "Another fortnight, or better yet, a month. There's still too much I haven't learned."
"Stay then," she said, matter-of-factly.
Will glanced at her in surprise.
"You wouldn't object?"
"Not if it will help the tenants."
"What if I remained through Christmas?"
"Certainly," she said without hesitation. "You have more claim to stay here than I do. But won't you miss your life in town?"
Will's lips quirked, as he glanced down at his plate.
"I miss...certain things. However, there is much to do here, and my brother has a shortage of trustworthy advisors. In fact, few landowners of his rank, seem to understand what they're facing."
"But you and Lord Pendragon do?"
Will grinned suddenly.
"No, we don't either. The only difference is, we know it."
Stay safe!