The Steward of Blackwood Hall

Chapter two - Meeting the steward

Following the stream along the boundary of the field, Anabelle came to the line of trees that separated Mr. Sutton's farm from the edge of their neighbour's land. Had she walked directly from home she could have chosen an easier route, but cutting across country would be quicker than returning to the village. She hoped she might also be able to spot the location of the problem before meeting the new steward.

Her father did not have a bailiff or a steward. Woodside's holdings were neither large enough to need one, nor its income generous enough to support one. Instead her uncle dealt with all the legal work while her father oversaw the remaining issues. She knew an educated, professional man often held the position on a larger estate. At the Hall she also hoped to find him a reasonable one.

Most of the leaves had already dropped as she threaded her way between the trees, carpeting the forest floor with shades of gold, green and brown, while the skeletal branches clawed at the autumn sky. Anabelle spent less time than she would have liked appreciating the glorious sights of nature, for she was wary of where she placed her boots. The slippery leaves could hide a multitude of nooks and crannies that might turn her ankle in a second. Having left the course of the stream as it veered away to the left, she began to fear she was well and truly lost. However, the trees thinned and after a time she glimpsed the sight of the Blackwood Hall stables in the distance, and the large house beyond.

She passed through the yard where two stable hands bustled about their tasks. Anabelle stopped by one of the young men as he washed down the glossy paintwork of his master's chaise to ask for directions to the steward's office.

Had her stepmother known her destination she would have instructed Anabelle to appeal directly to Sir Henry for help, reminding her to stand up straight and offer him a sweet smile as she did so. Yet she was not here to disturb that young gentleman's peace. Her business was with his steward. She knocked at the back door and waited until it was opened by one of Sir Henry's new footmen—a gangly young man with sandy hair and freckles. "I would like to speak to the steward."

"S...steward, miss?"

"Yes, the gentleman who has taken over Mr. Burgin's duties. I need to see him on a matter of business."

He frowned, glanced over his shoulder and asked for her name. Then he left her on the doorstep as he hurried down the corridor and turned out of sight.

While she waited, Anabelle paced the cobbles of the rear yard. As a young woman of respectable birth she was not used to being kept waiting outside, but then she smiled, remembering that most young women of respectable birth would not dream of helping their fathers manage their estates.

After a few minutes the young man returned and escorted her through the dingy corridors, the bare plaster walls and uneven stone floors causing Anabelle's footsteps to echo. He came to a plain brown door and knocked twice, waiting upon a summons from within. When it came he opened the door, said, "Miss Latimer, sir," and invited her inside.

Anabelle entered a room as cluttered as the hallway had been sparse. Ledgers, almanacs and books on farming practice overflowed from the shelves running along one wall. Opposite, drawers and cabinets stood open, as though someone had been searching for something. The dirty windows, looking out over the stable yard, cast their meagre light upon a large oak desk where a figure sat, his face unlined and his dark hair showing not a trace of grey.

Shadowed eyes met hers for an instant before his gaze moved on—a scrutiny designed more to intimidate rather than welcome. Then he flicked his fingers towards the chair opposite; as much an invitation as she was likely to receive.

Mr. Burgin had been a short, corpulent, balding man with a sublime sense of his own importance, strutting around as though he owned Blackwood Hall rather than merely having charge of its land and tenants. The man who had taken his place—though clearly younger than the old steward's fifth decade—had already proven himself far more worthy of the authority that emanated from him.