The elderly butler had been waiting stiffly at the top of the steps during this exchange, a worried look on his face that intensified as Nash drew closer. “Welcome to Whitethorn Manor, Mr. Renfrew. I’m sorry—if we’d had a little more warning—”
Nash shook the old man’s hand. “How do you do, Ferring? You look the same as ever. The lack of advance warning is deliberate. The estate is just as I want to see it—unprepared. Mrs. Pickens, good to see a familiar face.”
The butler looked even more unhappy and introduced him to Mrs. Goode, the cook, and her niece, Emily, some sort of housemaid or kitchen maid, Nash presumed.
“There is a great deal to be done,” Nash told Ferring. “But first I must write some letters. I’ll require four grooms to deliver them on horseback: one to ride to Bath, another to London, one to Alverleigh, my brother’s house, and the fourth to Firmin Court, which is near Ferne, in the next county.”
Ferring and Mrs. Pickens exchanged glances. Perhaps they were out of the habit of grooms delivering notes, but Nash had no time to waste. “In addition I’ll need my uncle’s carriage—I presume he has something better than the antiquated vehicle he had last time I was here.”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“Good God. What did he use?”
“Nothing, sir. Sir Jasper rarely left the estate.”
“Oh, well, you’ll have to send someone to hire one—”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Ferring quavered. “But I don’t see how I could manage it.”
“Why not?” Nash suddenly realized the problem. The old man probably should have been pensioned off years ago. “Very well,” he said in a gentler voice. “Assemble all the staff in the library in fifteen minutes and I will find someone to run the errands myself.”
“But, sir, the staff is already assembled,” Ferring told him. “Where?” Nash looked down the hallway.
“Here, sir.” Ferring gestured with a sweep of his arm.
With a sinking feeling, Nash stared at his staff. All four of them. Not counting the groom who’d taken his horse. “I suppose Grainger is the only groom left?”
“I’m afraid so, sir.”
“Any horses?”
“Just the one that pulls the gig, sir, for shopping and to take us to church on Sundays.”
Nash ran his fingers through his hair. No doubt the horse was as slow and elderly as the retainers. A skeleton staff was one thing—that was normal when the family was not in residence—but he suspected he was about to discover years of neglect.
“Ferring, I’ll speak to you and Mrs. Pickens in the library in fifteen minutes, and then I want to speak to you all twenty minutes after that—that includes Grainger and the gardener, if there is one. Anyone who currently works on the estate.”
“The estate manager, Mr. Harris?”
“Not Harris. I’ve already met him. And Ferring, bring down all my uncle’s boots.” Catching Ferring’s expression, Nash added, “I hope to find boots to fit me; you can see the state of mine.”
Ferring glanced at the ribbon-wrapped boot and his face resumed its human expression.
In the next fifteen minutes, Nash dashed off two identical letters to Aunt Maude—two because he wasn’t sure whether she was in Bath or London—a hasty note to Marcus, and a fourth letter to accompany the items he extracted from the cloth bundle that Grainger had brought in. He wrapped them in brown paper and tied it up with string.
He started a fifth letter to Harry and Nell at Firmin Court, but recalling the difficulty in finding delivery boys, decided they could do without. He hoped they liked surprises.
Ferring coughed at the door, his arms full of boots. Nash tried several pairs on, but the boots were too small.
“Pity.” He set them aside. “Now, a tour of the house, if you please.”
Fifteen minutes later he’d inspected most of the house. Its condition wasn’t as bad as he’d imagined. It was old and shabby and worn at the edges, but that was no surprise in the home of an elderly bachelor. With a little spit and polish, it would do, at a pinch.
He returned to the library, seated himself at the large carved oak desk, and called in the rest of the staff. They filed in, their faces glum.
“I’m about to be married,” he told them. “The wedding will be on Friday week, which gives you just over a week to prepare for guests.”
Their jaws collectively dropped. “How many guests do you expect, sir?” Mrs. Pickens asked hesitantly.
