He wore his heavy riding coat, mud splattered to the knees of his boots. He walked with a slight limp today, a lingering ghost of the cold settling into his old injuries. "My ancestors were not known for their financial acumen," he admitted, leaning against the edge of the desk. He was closer than he usually allowed himself to be. I could see the fine webbing of the scars pulling tight across his jaw.
They preferred hunting and gambling. "And what do you prefer, Nathaniel?" I asked, finally looking up. He met my gaze. The milky cloudiness of his left eye always made it difficult to read his full expression, but his right eye was sharp and endlessly tired.
I prefer quiet. I prefer the moors. The Moors do not pay the butcher's bill. I closed the ledger with a heavy thud. We are losing the northern tenant farms.
Three families have packed up and left in the dead of night because the roofs of their cottages are caving in, and the soil in the lower valley is drowning in pete bog. You cannot collect rent from people who are starving. I know. The admission was quiet, stripped of the defensive anger he had wielded during our first week. I sent the estate manager away two years ago.
He was stealing from them. Stealing from me. I thought I could manage it myself. Then the winter came and the isolation. It was easier to simply close the door.
We are opening the door. I stood up, smoothing the front of my wool skirt. Have the horses saddled. We are riding out to the lower valley. He frowned, crossing his arms.
It rained for 3 days straight, Cecilia. The roads are a slurry of mud. You have no business out there in a riding habit. I am not going to a garden party, Nathaniel. I am going to inspect my investments.
I grabbed my heavy cloak from the hook by the door. Unless you prefer to stay here and hide. It was a low blow. But it worked. His jaw tightened, the scarred tissue pulling tort.
I will tell the stables to prepare your mount. Try not to break your neck. The ride to the lower valley was brutal. The Yorkshire wind bit through my cloak, carrying a fine, icy mist that settled into my bones. The landscape was a desolate, bruising expanse of grays and browns.
Beside me, Nathaniel rode a massive, massive, illtempered black geling, handling the beast with an effortless, raw strength that belied his damaged appearance. We arrived at a cluster of miserable stones cottages hunched against the side of a hill. The thatched roofs were rotting, black with moisture. A few scrawny chickens pecked desperately at the frozen mud. A man emerged from the largest cottage, his face weathered into deep, permanent grooves of exhaustion.