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amusement.
    Like any good servant, Timmons appeared oblivious to the undercurrents. He tipped his head in greeting. "How do you do, sir? I can see his lordship in your stance. There's not many can ride that hell-bent stallion."
    John moved his horse forward, cutting off his uncle's view of Timmons.
    "You said there were some things needing my attention. Shall we?"
    The steward led them across the estate for several hours, pointing out repairs needed before the winter cold set in. Several tenants needed thatch replaced on their roofs. The storage barns looked in need of mending, with many ground level boards rotted all the way through from years of damp weather. There were also long stretches of fencing that could be rebuilt. The crumbling blocks of stone, lying almost hidden in the tall autumn grass, were mute evidence of his father's neglect.
    Fencing was something his father often ignored as he was on such good terms with his neighbors and knew the stewards from each estate returned wandering stock at shearing time. John felt it more prudent not to allow the problem in the first place. He wanted the fencing repaired. His uncle disagreed.
    Several carts and wagons passed from time to time, forcing him to introduce his uncle to the tenants. It disheartened him to pretend his dependents were meeting someone worthy. But he would find a way to warn them all when his uncle wasn't around.
    They stopped near a storage facility, and John noted the increased activity. "The fall crops are coming in from the tenants. The gypsies will be here soon."
    Mr. Timmons nodded, and Bartholomew rode closer, his face intent. "You expect gypsies?"
    John glared. He was aware of how most of the gentry felt about the gypsies, and it had taken years for the people in this community to reach an uneasy truce with them. He didn't want interference from his uncle.
    "They are hard workers. In fact, our estate, along with the Newburn and Belfont estates, would be hard-pressed to get the harvest in on time. There are not enough tenants at harvest time, or enough work the rest of the year to warrant additional tenants."
    "You are all fools if you think the gypsies such a boon. They steal you blind the moment your back is turned."
    Timmons frowned, and John leaned forward, stiffening his spine. "We are well aware of objects the gypsies take. It is their way. When they are in need, they take something. But with our agreement, we lose less, and they help us with the crops, thereby earning hard silver, something they are not accustomed to. We all benefit. And I would rather the Gypsies were somewhere I can keep an eye on them, than off hiding and stealing."
    The tense atmosphere transferred to the great stallion, and he reared, tossing his head. Bartholomew raised his crop and struck the horse repeatedly.
    John threw out an arm for the reins, and the swinging crop sounded on his arm. He winced, but didn't jerk back. The horse stilled, but his eyes remained wild, and his nostrils flared.
    "Vanguard is a fine stallion, unused to abuse. You would not soon find a replacement for him at Tattersalls. I suggest you choose another mount if you are unaccustomed to riding one with such spirit."
    Bartholomew leaned forward, his face a mask of hatred. Bushy black brows met over bloodshot black eyes. His red bulbous nose was a prominent reminder of excesses, reinforced by the fetid odor of alcoholic breath and stained yellow teeth. "I can handle any mount, what I will not tolerate is an insolent whelp who dares to think he could instruct me. Take more care for the welfare of your people, boy, for I surely will not." He turned the stallion and rode off.
    John heaved a sigh and bent over the neck of his horse, concealing how his uncle's taunts tired him. When he raised his head, Timmons was staring after Bartholomew.
    "If you don't mind my asking, what did he mean by that?"
    John hesitated a moment. The decision he made now would follow him the rest of his life. Did he trust Mr.