Colin's Conundrum

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Colin’s Conundrum - book excerpt

Prologue

“Gentlemen.” Colin Butler, Viscount Gelroy, addressed the ragged band of farmers gathered around him.

Nods greeted him, but excessive displays of obeisance had long since collapsed.

“How goes it?” he asked, stomach jumping. We’re so close to disaster. Another month, Lord, please. And another idea. Any idea.

A blond man in his early fifties, his hair streaked with silver, his face with dirt, scratched a cheek that seemed too hollow for his hearty frame and answered, “It could be worse, my lord. The red fescue is coming up nicely, along with clover and wildflowers. The fields look right pretty, and they have a chance to heal now.”

Colin sighed. “Well, that’s good, at least, Bullock. I appreciate how all of you agreed to this measure, despite the consequences of no money to pay the rents that go to taxes and the estate’s debts. It won’t be the first time, and at any point, the creditors may come after us.”

“What choice did we have?” a small, rat-like man with a sharp nose and prominent front teeth piped in a voice too high for his age. “As depleted as everything is, it’s not like we would have gotten any crops to speak of. We still have our animals and our gardens to sustain us. Are you sure, my lord, that you’re willing to suffer the consequences of defaulting again?”

“What else can I do? If we plant, nothing will grow. No money will come of our labors, and the end will be the same. If the creditors come, if I’m taken to a debtors’ gaol, you’ll have to leave, to seek employment elsewhere. Our estate, our land, will be abandoned and we’ll scatter. That’s the likeliest outcome, yet I see no other choice. We cannot plant.”

The others muttered, and Colin could see the despair and exhausted rebellion in their eyes.

He sighed. “I don’t like to think that we shall finally fail, after all these years of toil.”

“No one wants to,” Bullock said. “Do you have any ideas, my lord, to create income without crops?”

Colin shook his head. “Not a one. I wish I did.” I also wish you’d stop calling me ‘lord.’ I hardly deserve it. Since inheriting the damned title, I’ve accomplished precious little to improve anything. He lifted his gaze to meet those of his tenants. Gray, blue and brown eyes all met his with the same expression of dogged determination paired with far too little hope. They’re willing to die for this land, and they know they probably will. How many years has it taken from them, from me? Already, though only thirty-two, silver-streaked his temples and threaded through the darkness of his hair. Worry creased the corners of his mouth and crinkled his eyes. I could be a decade older. “I would appreciate a suggestion even if it’s idiotic. Can anyone think of anything?”

The men turned to look at one another. Shoulders lifted in defeated shrugs.

After a long, exhausted moment, Bullock spoke. “What about animals, my lord?”

“Animals?” Colin lowered his eyebrows and regarded his foreman.

“Aye. My daughter’s ewe had twin lambs, and my old bull managed to produce a calf. Fescue ain’t bad grazing, and the sheep love the clover.”

The idea wended its way slowly through Colin’s mind. “Animals. Hmmm. How many animals are there?”

“I have three goats, two sheep plus the lambs and a bull,” Bullock said. “Mind you, he’s a stringy old thing, but he’s still potent, as Farrell’s cow can attest.” The weakly bawdy jest produced a round of tired chuckles. “But my paddocks are falling down, and I can’t spare a single board to replace them. Not if I want to patch that hole in my wall.”

And they’ll have no money to buy supplies. The wall can only take so much mud patching before it’s more patch than wall.

“My chickens have been breeding like mad,” Billings volunteered. “I’ve made a hobby of them since my wife passed, and they’re thriving.

“Don’t forget,” Jones piped up, “the ducks in the pond have so many ducklings, it’s a trouble not to step on the poor things.”

From the beleaguered crowd, a mad plan began to hatch.

“Are you suggesting,” Colin asked at last, “that we turn the fallow fields into a huge grazing pasture?”

“Aye,” Farrell said quickly. “The breeding season ain’t over yet. Maybe we can sell critters at market. They’ll help the land heal too, they will.”

“Or,” he said, speaking without thought, “we could take them to London. Country-bred animals command higher prices in the city.”

A murmur greeted him.

“That might just do the trick,” Bullock said thoughtfully. “If we can sell the chickens and ducks at midsummer and the lambs and geese in fall, it might not cover the entire cost of taxes and debts, but could it be enough?”

It won’t, he thought, but then, a newspaper article flitted across Colin’s mind. Pesadilla is retiring from racing. Why did that stick with me? Something about his owner… about a favor I forgot to call in… Animals, hmmm. “Perhaps. You pose an interesting notion, gentlemen. I think there’s merit here. Maybe we won’t lose our situation after all. I need to head to London one last time, to make a few arrangements, and then I’ll be back. In the meanwhile, feel free to move your animals to the fields.”

Nods and grins greeted his announcement. We’ll not see prosperity in our lifetimes, but maybe these men can leave their children more than mere survival.

Chapter 1

Colin patted the neck of his ancient horse. “Poor Stormcloud,” he murmured to the beast. “You’re done in. We’ll have to stop soon.”

The horse snorted in response, shaking its silver mane.

“I know you’ve been a gray all your life, friend,” he told the animal as they crunched side by side through the undergrowth. “You worked hard during my father’s time and quite a bit of mine. Now, with that sway-backed gait and your sore feet, you look very much like the old man you are. Let’s just take it easy, shall we? I know life is waiting for me, but surely nothing will go horribly wrong in my absence. Bullock is perfectly capable, and my tenants all know what they need to do. They’re going to be fine. Meanwhile, I can enjoy these ancient woods one last time before I settle in to work hard for the rest of my life.”

He frowned at the melancholy turn his thoughts never would stop taking.

“As for you, Stormcloud, this is your last journey as a beast of burden. My friend Christopher has promised to find a nice, quiet place for you to live out your remaining days, with better feed and more congenial company than me.”

The horse turned to look at him with what appeared for all the world to be a sour expression.

“Sorry, friend,” he said with a bitter chuckle. “I’m in a poor state today. Too much has gone wrong in my life, and I can’t feign hope anymore. Bear with me. Your toil will soon be done.”

Feeling ridiculous, he fell silent, listening to the calls of birds and the buzzing of insects. A breeze stirred the leaves of the ancient trees and set them all whispering.

His worn boots crunched softly in the leaf litter. The saddle creaked on the horse’s back, though his small pack constituted its only load. Everything I own is failing, and I can’t replace anything, he thought. As though in response, a cool breeze sprang up, blowing a puff of tree-scented air into his face. He inhaled deeply. Fresh air is free. Friendship is free. Hard work is free. Life goes on, Colin. Never forget that.

Squinting up through the trees, he took in the angle of the sun. Keep heading east. Sun at your back. It’s getting late. Maybe there will be a comfortable barn without angry dogs ahead. I hope so. It’s sure I won’t make London today.

A sense of difference slowly registered on Colin. A soft rustling of leaves paired with quiet piping that did not sound like larks. That’s not birdsong. What is it? Colin moved forward along the trail. The horse’s hooves crunched in the dry leaf fragments, wafting a scent of last winter’s decay to clash with the fresh leaves, grass and flowers. Always something to bring a fellow back to reality, he thought. Spring may be a time of hope, but always winter waits just beyond the horizon, poised to sink claws and fangs into anyone who dares believe too much in those promises.

“Goodness, you’re moody,” he told himself aloud. Up ahead, the soft piping stopped.

“Who goes there,” a voice called, drawing Colin’s attention upward into the impenetrable canopy of a sturdy oak. Though he could see nothing, the sound reminded him of a youth, perhaps a young boy poised on the brink of adolescence. Even when I was so young, did I ever sound that carefree?

“Are you going to ask me to stand and deliver?” he quipped back, amusement tugging the corner of his mouth. “I haven’t much to offer, save a worn-out old horse and an empty leather pocket.”

The leaves rustled and the branches shook. “I’m no highwayman,” the disembodied voice replied. “Since when do they climb trees?”

He laughed at the youth’s tone of irrefutable logic. “I have a friend whose wife is from India. She says leopards hide in trees and drop down on the unsuspecting prey below. If beasts can do it, why not highwaymen?”

A trilling laugh drew an answering tingle from Colin’s insides. But surely that’s a… His thought cut off as a voluptuous golden figure dropped from a low branch onto the path before him. The horse snorted at the unexpected appearance of this seeming apparition of spring, but being old and tired, he did not react in any other way.

Colin, on the other hand, experienced an immediate and visceral reaction that began in his guts and radiated outward and downward until his every hair stood erect and his manhood showed signs of following suit.

Dear Lord, what a beauty. From her disheveled golden hair to the tips of her bare toes, she burst on his senses like sunlight through forest branches, calling to mind the legends of the fair folk and the nature spirits said to haunt the wild places of England. Though his rational mind shut down his musing in an instant, his tongue uttered a bit of nonsense that seemed to fit the moment. “’How now, Spirit. Whither wander you?’”

The head tilted to one side, sending a shower of loose golden locks to pool and cascade over her shoulder. “‘Either I mistake your shape and making quite,’” she quoted back at him, “‘or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite call’d Robin Goodfellow.’”

Her return of quote for quote left him blinking. He drew in air and his lungs fought the mundaneness of such an action. “‘Thou speakst aright. I am that very wanderer of the night.’”

She beamed, showing white teeth that overlapped charmingly in the front. “Well, then, Puck,” she continued, dropping the Shakespeare in favor of common speech, “what brings you to these parts? Oberon and Titania have no plans to revel in woods so close to our sleepy little village.”

“Just a traveler passing through, sprite,” Colin admitted, “and not a very interesting one. But tell me, what town is it?”

Her grin turned to a wry twisting of lips. “I do hope you’re not lost. The path you were following is used more by deer than men.” She turned and scanned the flattened undergrowth behind them, as though it would answer some question for her. “Well, if you continue this way, you’ll end up reaching the pond.” She gestured vaguely to the south before turning back his direction. “The mill is there, to be sure, and you can reach civilization that way, but if you’d rather be more direct, walk with me. The charming village of Loughton lies straight ahead, just through the trees. There is an inn there.”

Slowly, Colin’s senses were returning to him. “So you would consent to guide me then?” he asked, noting her archaically formal speech pattern and imitating it.

“I suppose I must,” she said with a dramatic show of suffering. “Poor Puck. If I don’t show you the way to town, the fairies will certainly carry you off to their revels, given you seem to know all their names. They’ll transform you into a changeling and make you consort to a fairy princess.”

You are the fairy princess, sweet, Colin thought, once more eyeing the vision of nature’s loveliness brought to life. “Well, then, I would thank you for your assistance,” he said, “but are you certain it’s wise for you to be in the woods alone? Unless you’re truly a fairy, you might be in some danger out here. I’m harmless, but what if some other fellow wandered into the wood and found you?”

“Far more danger in town than here,” she muttered, her grin fading. Or at least, that’s what Colin thought she said. Clearly, she didn’t mean the comment for his interpretation. “Come along, Puck. I know I’m safe from you, mischievous spirit.” She gestured forward and began walking in the direction she’d indicated, leaving the trail and crunching through the undergrowth.

Interesting. Sticks and leaves must be digging into her bare feet, but she shows no sign of discomfort. “Do you have a name, lass, or shall I call you Titania?” he asked her, tugging on the reins to urge the horse along. Stormcloud released a grumpy snort and began to step delicately onto the low groundcover, as though it feared soiling its iron shoes.

The girl gave an unladylike snort at his quip. “I would prefer Titania,” she admitted, “but no one I know would allow me such a title. I’m actually called Daisy Granger.”

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Colin told her.

“Likewise. It’s rare to meet anyone who knows Shakespeare so well. And are you really called Robin Goodfellow?”

The absurdity of the exchange tickled Colin’s sense of humor, and he couldn’t help emitting a bark of rusty-sounding laughter. “Sorry, Miss Granger, no. Colin Butler at your service.” He deliberately omitted his title—Damned little good it’s done me to have it—and waited to see if she would react.

Miss Granger turned her head and shoulders to give him a quick and considering glance. “Mr. Butler, eh? Are you a butler? And here you were presenting yourself to be a fairy.”

He chuckled. “No, ma’am. A butler in name only.” More’s the pity. Honest work and far fewer impossible decisions. He tugged the horse forward again, drawing along beside her in the spaces where the trees allowed such a movement, following closely behind when they did not. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” he asked, then frowned at the banality of the comment.

“Indeed,” the girl agreed. “Spring is my favorite time of year.”

You look like spring brought to life. Damnation, my life is unfair. If I were a humbler man, I could court this lovely lass. If I had anything to spare, I could offer carte blanche, but I have nothing, save a few moments of conversation. Despair, always looming beneath his veneer of civilized stoicism, threatened to engulf him. Ruthlessly, he squashed it down. Don’t brood. A moment of lively conversation is a prize in itself. Enjoy it without ruminating. “I’ve always appreciated spring,” he murmured. “A season of hope and rebirth. A season of the promise of green and growing things to sustain us through the long winter.”

She paused to consider him. “You sound more modern, suddenly. Like Wordsworth or one of his ilk. Do you enjoy poetry as well as Shakespearean plays?”

He shrugged. “I like to read. Because I’m essentially a farmer and live close to the land, Wordsworth makes sense to me. I’ve always found his writing appealing.”

“Without farmers, there would be no food,” Miss Granger commented as she resumed walking. “Food, far more than money, provides the nails that hold everything together. It makes sense to venerate the farm and what it provides, even in these days of industry.”

Colin couldn’t help but grin. “You’re a natural philosopher, sprite. When next I see my friend, who is a great lover of industry, I’ll have to tell him what you said.”

Miss Granger giggled. “Will he be offended?”

“Far from it,” Colin replied, adding his grin to hers. “When he’s not weaving fabric and repairing looms, he’s devouring poetry. He loves it. I think he might singlehandedly be sponsoring half the serious poets in Britain. And when he finds something, he’s not shy to share.” I’ll not be around to listen to the poetry Christopher discovers anymore, Colin realized sadly. Maybe he’ll send me some of his best finds from time to time. Might break up the monotony of endless work.

“Sounds like someone I would like to meet,” she agreed. “I prefer plays to poetry, but I appreciate either one. Are you a particular poetry aficionado?”

“More or less,” Colin agreed amicably, pushing away gloomy thoughts in favor of an enjoyable conversation. “My friend Christopher has become fanatically devoted to Robert Browning, and I have to admit, I find his work… thought-provoking, if somewhat ragged in style. Tennyson is my personal favorite of this particular crop. His elegant style and otherworldly topics fascinate me.”

“The otherworldly is my specialty,” she replied with a grin. “A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Tempest, even Macbeth make me happy.” Her grin widened.

Colin bit his lip to stop his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Lord, she’s pretty. Like a summer’s day. If only things were different.