Carving for Miss Coventry by Deborah M. Hathaway

Chapter One

Inglesbatch, Somerset – May 1816

Briarwood Estate was the ideal location for a cricket match. Extensive grounds, lush green fields, no trees to cast distracting shadows. The house itself stood pristine and polished, the east and west wings of the edifice extending past the center, as if the tan walls were outstretched arms, welcoming the guests and cricket players to its abode.

Edward Steele peered up at the front of the house with a wary eye. He was neither guest nor cricket player. To him, the home’s wide-open arms were nothing short of barriers flexing their dominance.

Doing business with the man who owned such a property should be flattering for anyone, but for Edward, working with Lord Ryecombe had been an unsettling experience from the start. Edward had far too much to lose, and more often than not, those with greater power and wealth were the ones who could damage a person the most.

Pulling his attention away from such discouraging thoughts, he focused on the cloudless, blue sky instead. The sun shone brightly that morning after weeks of rain, drying up the last of the dew and warming his shoulders and those of the attendees who’d already arrived to watch the match.

Gentlemen in fine suits and ladies in pastel gowns and flowery bonnets gathered at one side of the field, separated from the much more humbly—and sensibly—dressed families of the opposite team, the team made up solely of working class men.

Edward had been invited to play alongside them this year, but he hadn’t the time to engage in such merriment. At least until his situation changed.

With an impatient sigh, he swapped the large package he carried in his right hand over to his left then tugged at his cravat. He shouldn’t have worn his best jacket. Well, his only fine jacket. But Mother had encouraged him to avoid appearing even poorer than he was.

“Unfortunately, appearances matter to these sorts of people,” she’d said.

Edward had obviously agreed. But that still didn’t mean he enjoyed overheating in the jacket he barely found occasion to wear more than once a month.

The last of the carriages drove away on the long, circular path, having deposited the final guests at Briarwood. Lord Ryecombe had promised to retrieve the package from Edward the moment the guests had all arrived. Where was—

“Mr. Steele.”

Edward should’ve expected punctuality. Most gentlemen exhibited the admirable trait. How unfortunate it was that other desirable qualities did not make more of an appearance in their lives. Like humility. Or honesty.

He bowed, clearing his throat. “Lord Ryecombe, my lord. Good day.”

The man was nearly balding, but what hair he didn’t have atop his head was made up for by the thick set of side whiskers that carried from his hair, past his ears, to midway down his jaw.

“I take it that is my order?” Lord Ryecombe motioned with a tip of his head toward the leather-wrapped package in Edward’s hands. Apparently, he was as uninterested in exchanging pleasantries as Edward was.

He extended the package forward. “I trust they will meet your expectations.”

Lord Ryecombe huffed in disbelief as he took the bundle. The man had no faith in Edward. That much had been evident when he’d made the commission in the Steele’s woodshop a week before.

“Typically,” the man had said, “I would hire a proven woodworker. But seeing as how I need these by next week, you are my only option.”

The words still chewed at Edward’s patience. He’d been working at Father’s shop—now his shop—for nigh on twenty-three years, since the tender age of five. He’d proven himself and then proven himself again.

Of course, what with his sullied name, it was very unlikely Edward would ever not have to prove himself again.

Lord Ryecombe untied the twine around the bundle. “I trust you had no trouble accomplishing the task in the allotted time?”

Edward nodded in silence. He didn’t miss the pointed words. When the man had hired him, Edward had at first declined, saying he could not finish in seven days.

Lord Ryecombe had raised his chin. “I find that difficult to believe. From my understanding, your workload is not what it once was.”

He wasn’t wrong. But no man appreciated having his failing business pointed out by another. Even still, Edward had no choice but to accept the job.

Lord Ryecombe removed the twine and unfolded the top half of the package. He pulled the leather back, and it fell down around his other hand holding the bottom half, revealing the top of two cricket bats.

Edward had not enjoyed creating what were essentially glorified oars. Like most of his rare, latest commissions, they had required all function and very little finesse. How he longed for the days when he used to carve intricate designs into frames, shelves, and signs. Blast this world for turning stone statues into more of a fashionable commodity than wood.

If only stone was the sole reason he continuously found himself without work.

Lord Ryecombe continued to examine the bats, running his wrinkled fingers across the smooth edges of the flat, burnt-colored wood.

Edward had longed to carve even the smallest design on the bats, but he knew he’d be criticized. Instead, he’d branded his business name near the handle.

Steele and Son

Woodwork

He really ought to change that name. But what would the business be called without Father?

Steele and No Son?

One Steele and One Steele Alone?

“Will they suffice, my lord?” Edward asked, ready to be done with this whole affair.

Lord Ryecombe waited another moment to respond. “What type of wood is this?”

“Real English willow, my lord.” As if he’d use anything else.

Lord Ryecombe was clearly well-versed in cricket and knew exactly what wood was needed to prevent cracking under the pressure of hitting fast-moving balls. He was no doubt simply testing Edward with the question. Yet another condescending action often used by the upper class.

Finally, the man looked up with a nod, the ends of his eyebrows sticking out like a tomcat’s whiskers. “Yes. These will do. I admit, Mr. Steele, you’ve impressed me. I did not expect such high-quality work.”

Typical patronizing flattery. Edward was not one to unnecessarily boast of his capabilities, but he was also not unaware of his own talents. He could beautify a piece of wood with a dinner knife if he was required to do so.

Very well, that was a bit of a stretch. But still, it was not in his nature to perform half a job. He’d spent longer than he cared to admit studying depictions of cricket bats and staring at them through shop windows. He’d even expressed a feigned interest in purchasing one in order to hold it to recreate the latest style, size, and weight.

“I’m pleased they will do, my lord,” Edward responded as humbly as he was able to. It would not do to offend the man who had not yet paid him. Speaking of being paid. “If you are satisfied, Lord Ryecombe, shall we settle accounts so I can leave you to your guests?”

He’d always felt just a twinge of discomfort bringing up payment to his employers, but lately, he had to forgo his embarrassment. He couldn’t afford to be embarrassed.

“Certainly,” Lord Ryecombe said, wrapping up the bats in the leather once again, “just as soon as the match finishes and we are assured that the bats withstand the rigors of the game.”

Edward blinked. “My lord, I was under the impression that we had agreed for the payment to be settled the moment the package was delivered.”

Lord Ryecombe’s brow wrinkled, forming more layers on his forehead than Mother’s trifle. “Why in heaven’s name would I pay you before your work has proven itself?”

Edward’s chest tightened. He was already months behind in paying his rent for his woodshop. If he didn’t receive that payment, he would lose the shop and then bid farewell to his one source of income. He and Mother would have nothing. No food, no home, no prospects.

Edward drew in a steadying breath. “As you can see, I have already expended the wood and completed the bats. Should one of them fail, it would not be due to my craftsmanship.”

“Do you think the bats will falter?”

Edward straightened his spine. “No, my lord.”

Lore Ryecombe smiled wryly. “Then you really oughtn’t be concerned.”

“Lord Ryecombe, I—”

“Do not forget, Mr. Steele, that I am doing you a favor. After what has been said about your father, it is a miracle, indeed, that I even requested the job of you at all.”

Edward’s jaw twitched. All who knew him—inconsequential woodworker that he was—were not blind as to where he stood in regard to the rumors surrounding Father. Unfortunately, Lord Ryecombe was just like everyone else, listening to the tittle-tattle of gossips around Bath instead of knowing Father’s character and what he stood for.

Lord Ryecombe raised his chin in a challenge. What little remaining sprigs of hair he had atop his head floated about in the breeze like wheat in a field.

Would that Edward could tell him such a thing.

“Do you understand, Mr. Steele?”

If Edwarddid not need Lord Ryecombe’s commission—and if Mother did not wish to eat that evening—Edward would have very much liked to introduce the man’s pristinely tailored breeches to the lush grass they stood upon.

“Perfectly, my lord,” he said with fisted hands.

Lord Ryecombe gave a satisfied smile. “Very well. You may seek me out after the game. You may remain here or return later, I care not.”

With a firm nod, he ended their conversation, leaving with both bats gripped in his hands.

Those bats were a mere pittance to a lord. Not even a dent would be made against the man’s boundless wealth if he paid Edward now, so why would he not?

With an irritated shake of his head, Edward swept his gaze around him. The large area in front of Briarwood had filled with even more individuals.

The scent of cucumbers, strawberry turnovers, and cheese drifted past his nose, and Edward’s stomach rumbled. The table nearby nearly overflowed with silver trays filled with pastries, biscuits, and rose-painted cups near a large serving bowl of lemonade.

The corners of Edward’s lips raised.

If the bats did break, which they wouldn’t—they wouldn’t—and Lord Ryecombe refused Edward payment for his troubles…then Edward knew just how to make his money back—through his stomach.

Perhaps he’d stay at the match after all.

With an appetite the size of Somerset, Edward helped himself to his first plate of food, consisting of a plain pastry biscuit, stewed fruit, and a few pieces of cheese.

As he ate, his heart threatened to sink at the guilt knocking at his chest, but he refused to give answer to it. He did not need to feel badly for eating his weight in Lord Ryecombe’s food. He was now, for all intents and purposes, the man’s guest, and he would behave as one.

He munched on what he hated to admit was the most delicious food he’d eaten in months, all while the men gathered on the green in their respective teams.

The gentlemen’s team laughed gleefully, clapping one another on their backs as they stretched their arms in circles.

On the other side of the field, the working-class men huddled together, listening intently to the man who was clearly their captain, Mr. Reginald Sinclair, whom Edward recognized as the nephew of the postmaster.

From what Edward had heard of Mr. Sinclair, they had both had similar experiences with their fathers being treated poorly by the upper class. But where Edward held onto a grudge, Mr. Sinclair did not. At least, as far as Edward was aware.

Either way, Mr. Sinclair’s team admired him, hanging on to his every word with nods of devotion and understanding.

By the time the game began, Edward had nearly finished with his second plate—jam puffs, blancmanges, and a plum cake—and was more than ready to fill his third with two pieces of pound cake.

He wasn’t a gluttonous man. He merely enjoyed a small taste of revenge now and again. No, no. Not revenge. Equality and fairness. Even though he hardly knew what fairness in life was.

As the points increased for both teams and the bats held up under the pressure of the game, Edward’s confidence grew. Yes, he would be receiving payment that morning, and all would be well.

For the time being, of course. Lord Ryecombe’s promised payment would hardly cover half of February’s rent. Past and future rent would still need to be paid, broken tools would still need to be replaced, and food would still need to be purchased. He couldn’t afford any of it.

He ate his newly plated pound cakes, the sugar turning to sand in his mouth. This was all due to men like Lord Ryecombe. Selfish, heartless. Did he not know he injured Edward’s mother by withholding the payment, too? Either way, the man obviously didn’t care.

But Edward cared.

He meandered back to the table, slipping pieces of plum cake and sponge cake and a strawberry turnover into his handkerchief. Securing the pastries in the now-stained white folds, he then placed the food into his leather satchel. Mother would appreciate these, even if they were a bit dismantled by the time she could eat them.

After stashing away his pilfered-for-a-good-cause pastries, he looked around to ensure he’d remained unspotted. All eyes were focused on the game.

That is, all eyes except for a stunning pair directed straight at him.

His heart dropped. Had the young woman who boasted such eyes seen his thievery? He glanced away but could still feel her gaze on him.

As casually as possible, he took a few steps back and slid into the crowds, the food twisting round in his stomach like a spiral auger. Suppose she told Lord Ryecombe? The man would never pay Edward then.

The usual crack of a ball against the bat echoed around the field, but instead of the usual cheers, screams bore out, and Edward’s pastries were forgotten.

“Lord Ryecombe!” came a voice above the rest.

“Is he injured?” cried a man from behind.

“Who hurt him?”

“Blast and wretch!”

Edward leaned forward with the rest of the crowd, both teams racing toward the seats where Edward managed to catch a quick glimpse of Lord Ryecombe rocking back and forth, holding his hands to his mouth.

“Is there a physician?” shouted someone standing beside the injured man.

“Make way, please!” A man with sandy-brown hair pushed forward. “I’m a doctor.”

Lord Ryecombe swatted him away. “I’m more than well, Cooper,” he grumbled. “Continue with the match!”

“Forgive me, my lord, but I must insist that you allow me to see to the wound, if only to ensure nothing worse comes of it.”

“You are thimply trying to end the game now your team ith winning,” Lord Ryecombe growled, his swelling lip impeding his speech. “Upon my honor, he’ll pay for thith!”

Lord Ryecombe was clearly referring to the man who had struck him. Edward glanced around, but he could not see a single soul who bore the regret and guilt he ought to for hitting a member of the gentry in the face with a cricket ball.

“Did you see the accident?”

Edward paused. A female voice was close to him, but clearly, she wouldn’t be speaking with Edward.

He kept his focus on the crowd gathering closer around Lord Ryecombe, his view of the man now gone.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Her voice sounded closer. Was she speaking to him? He glanced over his shoulder, startled when those stunning eyes—green, now that he could see them closer—watched him again.

Heat poured into his cheeks. Did she recognize him as the pastry pilferer? “Pardon?”

“I merely asked if you happened to see the accident.”

Perhaps she didn’t recognize him. Her expression was innocent enough. “Yes. I mean…That is to say, no. I heard the incident.”

A touch of disappointment flickered in her eye. “So you did not see the culprit?”

“I am afraid not.”

She pulled her lips to the side and peered around him at the working-class team. Edward hesitated, facing forward again.

“Do hold still, my lord,” the doctor was saying, though Edward could no longer see them.

“Are you a supporter of the game?”

Was she speaking to Edward again? He turned around, and sure enough, her focus was still trained on him.

He glanced from side to side. She had to be at least twenty, still in need of a chaperone. Where was her family? Would they think it was he who had prompted the start of their conversation?

“I enjoy watching a match every now and then,” he replied simply.

She nodded in silence.

Wishing to avoid any misconceptions or condemnations, he gave a nod to end their conversation then faced forward again.

Most of the crowd had dissipated from around Lord Ryecombe, the teams already returning to the field. So the earl had gotten his way, and the game would continue. Not that that came as a surprise to Edward. Wealthy gentlemen always received everything they—

“Have you played cricket yourself?”

Edward started at the woman’s voice piping up directly beside him. When had she moved up there?

“I have,” he responded.

As strange as she was, he could not deny her pretty features accentuated by a blue spencer and white dress—clearly the dress of a gentleman’s daughter. Her bonnet matched with small sprigs of minute, blue flowers tucked into a darker blue ribbon.

But never mind her charming appearance. His discomfort grew and spread as rapidly as an infectious wood disease. Never had a person, let alone a lady, taken such an interest in him before.

“Did you enjoy playing the sport, Mr.…Sir?”

So that was where she drew the line of propriety, avoiding asking him his name because they had yet to be formally introduced? Perhaps if he answered apathetically, she’d take the hint and leave. “I suppose.”

A pleased twinkle shone in her eye. “Do you live here in Inglesbatch?”

“No, I do not.”

“Then where do you live?”

She was mad. She had to be. Should he really be alerting a mad woman to where he lived?

She looked at him expectantly until he relented. “I take up residence in Bath.”

Her eyes shone even brighter. Apparently, he was giving her all the correct answers this morning. “Were you born and raised there?”

He glanced at the crowd nearby. Fortunately, no one seemed concerned with their conversation in the slightest, all eyes focused on the cricket match. “Yes, I was. But if you’ll excuse—”

“Do you have friends playing today?”

For heaven’s sake. What was next? Would she ask after his parents? How he had been brought up? What his family’s darkest secrets were? “Yes, I do.”

“Is that why—”

“Marianne?” called a feminine voice from within the crowds.

The woman’s eyes rounded, looking past Edward’s shoulder.

Was that her name? Marianne? He looked over his shoulder but could not find who had called out.

“Is someone looking for you?” he asked, turning back to the woman with the green eyes.

She gave an uncomfortable laugh. “Oh, I hardly know. At any rate, I must be off. It was a pleasure to meet you, sir. Good day.”

With a swift curtsy and a smile that revealed small dimples at the ends of her lips, the woman disappeared into the crowd the opposite direction of where the other woman had called for her.

Edward remained still for a moment, trying to process what had just occurred. What was this woman planning to do with all of this newfound knowledge?

With a quick exhale of breath, he faced the cricket match once more, carving out the memory of the woman and replacing it with his attention on the bat—the bat that held his fate within each grain of the wood he’d smoothed.

His work would hold up for the rest of the game. It had to.

After all, he couldn’t afford for it to do otherwise.