Chapter Nineteen

T

he hilly forest land Eleanor guided him through startled Miles with its striking vistas. She stopped at one overlook where a break in the fir and hardwood trees displayed the vignette of a waterfall plunging fifty feet into a placid lake with cattle grazing the banks under willow trees. Eleanor explained that the waterfall was the end of the river that powered the water wheel at the mill in Wallingford. Another pause in their ride occurred by an apple orchard with the trees in the last of their blossom while Eleanor spoke with the wife of the tenant farmer as her young children played a noisy game of hide-and-seek among the trees. As they rode off, Eleanor confided, “The best hard cider in all of England comes from this orchard. We sell as much as we make. It turns a tidy profit.”

“Is it the farmer or the apples that produce such a good result?”

Eleanor smiled. “Neither. It is the brewer who happens to be the woman I paused to speak with. I keep trying to glean her secrets so we can apply them at other farms, but she holds her methods and ingredients close.”

“What do you find to be the sources of most revenue for Rutledge?”

Eleanor responded with a fascinating outpouring of information about the wide span of income-producing products that brought vast wealth to Rutledge and its farms and villages. She knew the people of Rutledge well and regaled Miles with many humorous anecdotes interwoven with facts and figures about crop-yield and such. Miles had no difficulty appearing interested as she captured and held his attention completely, and he knew a moment of wistfulness, wishing he could halt time and preserve this perfect afternoon spent in uncomplicated interaction with an intelligent and vivacious woman of easy laughter and animated expression.   

Such passed several hours of companionable travel until they came upon the village of Wallingford and the new mill race that Eleanor wanted to view for herself. She pointed to a partial diversion of the river into a stone-lined chute that fed the four-story waterwheel attached to the multi-story mill.

“We had some very bad flooding here last spring, and the water overran the millrace, eroding the mortar and displacing the stones. The miller called in a stone mason to repair the damage, and I wanted to view the results. We grind wheat and corn here in quantity. When the miller opens the flume fully, the flume is the box where the water from the millrace enters the mill, we can grind upwards of 2,500 pounds of corn flour per day and double that of wheat. Would you like to meet the miller and see the mill in operation? Mr. Townsend is also a millwright, which makes him of greater value to Rutledge than a simple miller, as he can repair the inner workings of the mill as well as see to the grinding of the grain.”

“Yes, I would be very interested to see the workings.”

“We can tie the horses in that copse of trees.”

The grove of trees was situated such that it enclosed them in the idyllic privacy of dense green boughs, lush spring grass and a scattering of bluebells while the river burbled as a backdrop of sound, and after a glance around to appreciate the beauty of the setting, Miles dismounted to assist Eleanor from her horse. As she had done the last few times that day when he’d wrapped his hands around her waist to assist her on or off her horse, her body softened as if she welcomed his touch, and assured of no onlookers, he took advantage of her pliancy, holding her to him when her feet touched the ground, to place a kiss on her full, upturned lips.

After a moment of startlement, she relaxed into him, wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. The kiss started as a simple, spontaneous demonstration of his burgeoning feelings for Eleanor, but with her enthusiastic participation, it flourished into something far less innocent. When his hand strayed to massage her breast and pass his thumb over the hard nub of her nipple, she made a sound of encouragement and pressed herself more fully into him. She might as well have set alight oiled straw, so quickly did he catch fire. He could only indulge his desire for a finite time. With an effort, he wrenched himself away from her and dropped his hands to still her hips and hold her from him. Her arms still draped his shoulders, and her kiss-swollen lips shone with wetness. Her hazel eyes opened and held his in question. 

“If we don’t stop now, Eleanor, I will have you in the bluebells.”

“Really? In the bluebells? Outside?” A slow smile grew on her face, and her expression held a certain smug satisfaction. She shrugged lightly, and her hands dropped to her sides. “I can think of places more onerous.”

“Behave yourself,” he admonished in a teasing voice. “Your inexperience demands a week of amorous activity that occurs in a comfortable bed, accompanied by all the niceties such as hot baths and clean sheets. There will be time enough to venture into the wilds.” He traced a knuckle across her cheek and stepped back to put more than a hand’s span between them.

“As you wish, my lord.” She looked away, appearing very much like a barn cat who’d discovered a spill of cream. “The horses are wandering off.”

And so they were. With a snort, Miles went about catching them. It was just the diversion certain parts of him needed to restore equilibrium.  

After securing the horses, he and Eleanor spent in excess of an hour with the miller as the man showed Miles the massive, four-story shaft that turned four stone wheels and all the cogs and gears that connected them to the water wheel to produce power. Mr. Townsend was justifiably proud of his mill and Miles left with a greater appreciation for the labor required to provide the flour for his daily bread—and a growing understanding of the assets Eleanor fought so hard to retain.

When he and Eleanor rode into the courtyard of Rutledge, the sun cast lengthy shadows. It had been a long, but interesting, day. A bass chord of desire for his wife had strummed in the background of his awareness the entire time, and he wondered if they might forego a formal dinner for a tray in their apartments. He assisted Eleanor off her horse and handed their horses off to the grooms. Turning, Miles offered his arm, and with a smile, she entwined hers with his as they both sauntered across the cobblestones to the great oak doors of Rutledge Manor.

“I’ve only seen a portion of the Rutledge holdings, but I am gaining an ever-growing insight into the vast diversity of knowledge required to efficiently manage this estate.”

“I cannot pretend to have an in-depth knowledge about many of the trades. I have several land stewards that manage most of the day-to-day issues, but tenants always benefit from the eye of the landowner. That precept is one my father imprinted on me from my earliest days. The people who are entrusted to work the land need to know that the master or mistress of Rutledge is aware and engaged in their efforts. At some point in the future, we will do a comprehensive tour of the estate and introduce you as the new master.” She cocked her head and glanced at him. “Is Chelsony a large property? Did your father involve you in its workings?”

“Chelsony is a fair size at 35,000 acres but small in comparison to Rutledge. As to my involvement? I wasn’t really…or at least not in any depth.” Miles frowned. “As the third son, I was expected to go into the Church, not a vocation to which I felt called; law, again not a field that suited me; or enter the military. Father strongly opposed buying a commission for me commenting that one son at risk of death was enough and when Mother added her heartfelt pleas, I conceded the field.” He shrugged. “I had developed a passion for the breeding and racing of the Thoroughbred horse, and my understanding with Father was that, upon my graduation from university, he would grant me an independence sufficient to pursue my desires. Unfortunately, he died without amending his will, and when Edgar acceded to the title, he shut down what he considered frivolous expenditures. He sold off all the racing stock Father and I had so painstakingly put together, indeed sold all our horses but those that pulled the carriages and a few personal mounts. My Badger was on the block in the knacker’s yard when Ned rescued him and brought him to me in London. Baron Stanton was kind enough to stand for Badger’s upkeep as I lacked the ready. Edgar left my younger brother and me to find our own way on a pittance, enough to hold body and soul together…but little else—certainly not keep a horse in London.”

“Your half-brother appears deficient in brotherly love,” Eleanor observed dryly. Miles snorted and dropped Eleanor’s arm, so she could use both hands to manage her skirts as they climbed the steps to the front doors. Gaining the wide porch, she paused and once again wrapped her arm around his when he offered it, casting a shy smile at Miles as she did so.

“Edgar’s greatest sin was treating Mother poorly for which I will never forgive him. Had Duncan been home, he might have been able to shame Edgar into doing properly by her, but he is fighting somewhere in France. I hope, still alive. My letters to him have gone unanswered for almost a year.”

“Duncan is your father’s second son by his first wife?”

“Yes.”  He made to open the door for Eleanor, but it swung inward of its own accord.

“Good evening, Lady Miles. Lord Miles.” The doorman nodded as they walked through.

“Good evening, Jeffers. How is Lady of the Lake going?”

“You have not kept up, your ladyship.” He grinned. “I’m now into a popular novel that’s all the rage, Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley.” He shuddered. “A gruesome tale I’d not have thought penned by a woman.”

“Truly?”

Miles cleared his throat. “It deals with the reanimation of the dead.”

Eleanor turned to him. “So you’ve read it?”

He pulled her away gently and continued to walk toward the stairs to the second floor. “Yes, I have not always been as usefully occupied as I’ve been the last few months. In the past, I’ve had to fill large stretches of idle time, so I read extensively.”

Eleanor cast a sidelong glance his way and considered Miles’ last words and all that he had not said. How it must have chafed this young, active man of sharp intellect to be reduced to the beck and call of single, aging females. Was she any better? Yes. Yes, she was. She had offered him an honorable escape from that life. She was like any other bride that came to her groom with a large dowry, and look how he had responded—not by squandering his monies on high town living and stylish equipage. He’d purchased a working estate and set up his mother.

He’d thrown himself into smoothing her way as well; and then there was the gift of Day Dreamer and Miles’ inexplicable ability to kiss her into forgetting all reason. He worked some sort of strange alchemy on her body that liquefied her bones and melted her flesh in surrender to stunning pleasure. Was it any wonder she was powerless not to love him? She acknowledged her ability to resist him had never been worth a tinker’s damn. Emotion welled in her breast, and she vowed he would not regret his many kindnesses to her, and she cringed inside when she recalled the vile slur she had hurled at him in anger. She would do whatever was required to make Miles happy—even if it meant a life lived apart. But until that calamitous day, she’d do all in her power to make him love her, beginning with a much overdue apology.