Not smiling, but not really scowling either. Just world-weary.
“Why are you so sad today?” she asked.
He arched a brow and it was the only animation on his face. She didn’t even blink. Did he really think to cow her with an arched brow? Apparently not, because his gaze soon drifted away from her to the dark trees beyond her shoulder.
“I learned today that my brother tried to be a good man.”
She tilted her head, confused. “But that’s lovely, isn’t it? That your brother’s a good man?”
He didn’t answer, and she had to replay his words in her mind.
“Oh,” she said quietly. “You said he tried to be a good man. He didn’t succeed?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Well,” she said slowly, “he did try, at least. Intentions matter. We can’t be perfect all the time.” She couldn’t manage to be perfect any of the time.
He kicked dully at a stone. “Intentions are like wishes.”
“And if wishes were horses then beggars could ride. Yes, I know. But it’s not the same thing. You said he tried to be a good man. What did he do? And why did it fail?” As she peppered him with questions, she tried to recall everything she knew about his older brother. All she remembered was his name was Grant and he was now Lord Crowle.
“He gave himself five years to buy back our land. This land.”
“Five years? So that would be…”
“In two months, two weeks, and six days.”
“Oh. Does he have the money?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. I haven’t spoken to him since the day he sold everything.”
Even she knew about the happenings on the night nearly five years ago. Megan had told her all about it, or as much as everyone hereabouts knew. On the evening after the Crowle daughter married Lord Dengler, the two Crowle brothers had a right good row. William, the second son, had stormed off, likely coming to this very spot to kick at stones and curse the creek.
The older son, Grant, had done the one thing the Crowles excelled at: he’d gotten drunk and made a stupid mistake. In this particular case, it had been to accidentally burn down the barn. There were no casualties as he had been rather heroic in rescuing the cattle, but the act remained as yet another black mark on the Crowle name.
That alone was bad enough, but two days later the village received quite a shock. Apparently, in addition to burning down the barn, the older Crowle had sold every inch of unentailed land to Josephine’s father. Soon after that, her family had moved in, the younger Crowle son became their steward, and no one had heard from Grant since. Not even on the day of his father’s funeral, which happened about a year after the wedding.
It was quite the history, but obviously not the whole truth. And if Will’s face was anything to judge by, there were more layers to the story. She leaned forward, trying to think through the possibilities.
“So Papa promised to sell the land back—”
“At a fair price—”
“But you’ve only got a few more months to do it. Well, if your brother can’t do it, what about you? Do you have enough money?”
He snorted, the sound harsh in the night air. “Maybe if I’d known five years ago. Maybe if he’d told me, I could have managed something.”
“But you have been saving, haven’t you? I mean, what is there to buy in Crowlesby Village?”
“Besides food and a new roof?”
“Yes, besides that.” Will and his mother lived in the entailed land—Crowles Castle—and it was a crumbling, dangerous mess. He’d managed to keep one corner of it standing and somewhat habitable, but all the village children were warned away from it because the entire place was falling apart.
“Nothing,” he said dully.
“So you haven’t spent your money foolishly, have you? “
“No.”
“So do you have enough to buy—”
“No.”
“Oh.” She huffed. What was she missing? He was clearly angry about something. “I don’t understand. Your brother tried to save the
“Why are you so sad today?” she asked.
He arched a brow and it was the only animation on his face. She didn’t even blink. Did he really think to cow her with an arched brow? Apparently not, because his gaze soon drifted away from her to the dark trees beyond her shoulder.
“I learned today that my brother tried to be a good man.”
She tilted her head, confused. “But that’s lovely, isn’t it? That your brother’s a good man?”
He didn’t answer, and she had to replay his words in her mind.
“Oh,” she said quietly. “You said he tried to be a good man. He didn’t succeed?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Well,” she said slowly, “he did try, at least. Intentions matter. We can’t be perfect all the time.” She couldn’t manage to be perfect any of the time.
He kicked dully at a stone. “Intentions are like wishes.”
“And if wishes were horses then beggars could ride. Yes, I know. But it’s not the same thing. You said he tried to be a good man. What did he do? And why did it fail?” As she peppered him with questions, she tried to recall everything she knew about his older brother. All she remembered was his name was Grant and he was now Lord Crowle.
“He gave himself five years to buy back our land. This land.”
“Five years? So that would be…”
“In two months, two weeks, and six days.”
“Oh. Does he have the money?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. I haven’t spoken to him since the day he sold everything.”
Even she knew about the happenings on the night nearly five years ago. Megan had told her all about it, or as much as everyone hereabouts knew. On the evening after the Crowle daughter married Lord Dengler, the two Crowle brothers had a right good row. William, the second son, had stormed off, likely coming to this very spot to kick at stones and curse the creek.
The older son, Grant, had done the one thing the Crowles excelled at: he’d gotten drunk and made a stupid mistake. In this particular case, it had been to accidentally burn down the barn. There were no casualties as he had been rather heroic in rescuing the cattle, but the act remained as yet another black mark on the Crowle name.
That alone was bad enough, but two days later the village received quite a shock. Apparently, in addition to burning down the barn, the older Crowle had sold every inch of unentailed land to Josephine’s father. Soon after that, her family had moved in, the younger Crowle son became their steward, and no one had heard from Grant since. Not even on the day of his father’s funeral, which happened about a year after the wedding.
It was quite the history, but obviously not the whole truth. And if Will’s face was anything to judge by, there were more layers to the story. She leaned forward, trying to think through the possibilities.
“So Papa promised to sell the land back—”
“At a fair price—”
“But you’ve only got a few more months to do it. Well, if your brother can’t do it, what about you? Do you have enough money?”
He snorted, the sound harsh in the night air. “Maybe if I’d known five years ago. Maybe if he’d told me, I could have managed something.”
“But you have been saving, haven’t you? I mean, what is there to buy in Crowlesby Village?”
“Besides food and a new roof?”
“Yes, besides that.” Will and his mother lived in the entailed land—Crowles Castle—and it was a crumbling, dangerous mess. He’d managed to keep one corner of it standing and somewhat habitable, but all the village children were warned away from it because the entire place was falling apart.
“Nothing,” he said dully.
“So you haven’t spent your money foolishly, have you? “
“No.”
“So do you have enough to buy—”
“No.”
“Oh.” She huffed. What was she missing? He was clearly angry about something. “I don’t understand. Your brother tried to save the
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