Lord of the Manor (Trysts and Treachery Book 5) by Elizabeth Keysian (robert munsch read aloud .txt) 📗

The skin on Allan’s scalp tightened. He hadn’t realized he was sailing quite so close to the wind. They needed to spend more on the property before it started turning a profit, so now was not a time when he wanted to make savings. Yet, it sounded as if he needed to do exactly that.

“Couldn’t you put a bit more of your capital into the place, Kennett? We need furnishings, and coin for wages and a few animals, so we don’t have to buy our own eggs or pork.”

“I could.” Kennett tilted his head. “It would have to be by a formal agreement, drawn up by a lawyer so that if it all goes awry, my loss would be proportionate to the amount I’d put in.”

Why should there be any loss? Had Kennett lost faith in their venture so soon? Allan began to wonder how much he really understood—or trusted—his brother-in-law.

“And of course, if you want good fleeces, you’ll want extra food for the sheep when they arrive. We bought this place too late to harvest the hay, and there is no convenient field of old neeps into which we can put the animals to forage. You—I mean, we, will have to purchase fodder for the winter.”

Allan couldn’t dispute that fact, although he did wonder if he might be able to plant some turnips or beets now and harvest them gradually over the wintertime. Would Kennett bend his back and help him in the fields? He very much doubted it.

“I’ll consult Fitzherbert’s Book of Husbandry and see what can be done.”

Kennett threw back his head and guffawed. “You can’t learn husbandry from a book, you fond fool! You were born and bred on a farm—I assumed you must’ve learned all you needed from that. Have I overestimated your abilities and knowledge?”

Allan resisted the urge to tug on Kennett’s dark beard and make him wince. He didn’t like being called a “fond fool”. Aye, he had been born on a farm, but his father had wanted him to be more than just a farmer, so he’d been sent to school to gain what could be learned from books. That had been followed by a spell as a scholar at Cambridge—he knew the Scriptures, he’d studied Law and Classics, and he even knew a little Latin and Greek.

But on the practical side, his skills lay in the manufacture and sale of woolen cloth, not in livestock rearing. He knew how to dye wool, how to make Linsey and Wolsey mixes, and how many threads to an inch one needed on the loom—but he’d been relying on Kennett to supervise the actual production of the fleeces.

“We could always exchange roles. I could take over the accounts while you spend more time on the animal husbandry. You also come from a family of sheep farmers—Hannah told me often how well you dealt with the animals.”

Kennett kicked at a pile of dust and leaves with his boot, avoiding Allan’s eye. “Too late for that. I’ve worked hard to make contacts hereabouts. How will it look if suddenly they have to deal with you rather than me? People will think you don’t trust me—which could lead to all kinds of difficulties.”

Allan gave up the uneven struggle. He would leave the matter, at least for now. And as soon as Kennett was gone, he’d fetch a broom and clear away that pile of leaves. They’d been here over three weeks now, and it was inexcusable to have such a mess in their abode. A gentleman simply didn’t live like this.

“Now, Brother—I am off up to Lavenham today to see how our sheep are fattening up for their journey. I’ll be gone overnight. Pray, do nothing dangerous while I’m away, such as clambering about on roofs.”

“I won’t.” Allan struggled to keep the sourness from his voice. There was so much that needed doing, yet Kennett was gallivanting off to Suffolk on a bright August day, with the prospect of a good cooked meal in his stomach at day’s end, and the best quality ale with which to wash it down.

“Fare thee well. Now, don’t forget what I said about putting up the rents. I’ve left the relevant account book in the solar, it being the driest place in the house. Anon.”

Allan shrugged his shoulders and gazed gloomily out the window as Kennett mounted his steed and clattered off. He hadn’t wanted to get involved in the books today. While the weather remained fair, he needed to clear the fishpond of weeds and check the number of carp. He also needed to work out why the water level in the moat was so low—he feared for the survival of the wild roach that had taken up residence there.

Ah, well. Needs must. He mounted the narrow spiral stair and entered the solar, then settled himself at the table and opened the account book.

Outside, he could hear the soft cooing of doves and the braying of a donkey. Pleasant country sounds, far better than the blare and babble of the urban life he’d experienced in Cambridge. How he longed to be outside, under the blue heavens, inhaling the scent of the late roses, ox-eye daisies, and willowherb. Those were among the few flowers he could name, but he meant to learn the names of all the rest as soon as he found a gardener who could teach him.

He opened the book, then gazed into empty air. Cecily Neville would know what all the plants were called, he was sure. Although—she didn’t look like any country girl he’d ever met. Though her hands were rough from labor, her features were fine and daintily sculpted, and her hair—what he’d seen of it escaping from her coif—was as black as a moonless night. Her eyes were such a dark brown that they were almost black. Coupled with her long, dark eyelashes, they gave her an exotic foreign look, although she had