Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand by Carla Kelly

sir," she said calmly. "I can take it."
    He blinked at her. "Take what, Mrs. Drew?" He touched her arm briefly, his eyes boring into hers. "You don't think I have cried off?"
    "I understand perfectly," she said, and then stopped, her eyes wide. "Tibbie?"
    "I should give you a shake for your thoughts, Mrs. Drew!" He sighed. "Although I doubt me that you have a kindly regard for men right now. Come here."
    He led her into the house and directly to the bookroom, where he took her arm again and walked her to the back window. She looked out, and felt the tears well in her eyes, just when she was so sure she was too tough to cry ever again.
    Four men worked on the roof, with another two at the windows, removing broken shards of glass. Inside the front room, she could just make out other carpenters tearing up the floor. She could not look at the bailiff.
    "He came here yesterday with his solicitor, breathing fire," Tibbie said, his voice quiet, but with an edge to it. "Told me I was to return your money and stop work on the dower house immediately. Told me if I did not, he would personally contact Lord Winn and demand it. Said I would lose my job and never find work evermore as a bailiff in Yorkshire."
    "Sir, those are hard words and these are hard times. I think he can do what he says."
    Tibbie touched her shoulder and she looked at him. "I told him I would die before I would stop work. Told him I had taken your money and signed a paper. Told him to go to hell, ma'am, if you'll excuse me. I also told him to do something else, but I don't think he can."
    Roxanna let out a breath she felt she had been holding since she first spotted the man coming across the field to the vicarage. "I would like to have done that, Tibbie. I can say thank you, but the words seem a bit flimsy after what you have done."
    The bailiff stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his heels, immensely pleased with himself. "You'll be a good tenant, I am thinking. Maybe there'll be zinnias in the spring in front of t'awd house?"
    "Oh, at least," she agreed, determined not to embarrass this man with tears. "I would like to start some ivy on that west wall. It will take a while for ivy, of course, but I intend to stay in this game, sir."
    "Ten pounds a year, and you're in, Mrs. Drew," he said and laughed. "And now, I have some harvesting to oversee. True, it may go a bit slower because of the urgencies on the house, but I don't care."
    They shook hands again, and he walked her to the front door. "During his volcanic eruption, Lord Whitcomb lathered about having a cart at your door on Monday morning to remove your things to his manor."
    "That he did, sir," she agreed.
    "Well, how about if I just happen to send a cart Sunday afternoon?"
    Roxanna grinned at the bailiff. "I think we could fill it and be off Lord Whitcomb's property before he has time to blink. I really should pay you for that service."
    He shook his head. "You've paid your ten pounds, Mrs. Drew. That got you in the game, think on."
    The leaves had been stripped from Northumberland trees by arctic winds when Fletcher Rand received the packet of letters. Amabel had forwarded them to the estate he left a week ago, and it had taken another week for them to catch up to him here at High Point.
    He wrapped his many-caped driving coat tighter around him and wished he had resisted his sisters' endeavors to see him into a more modish wardrobe before he left Winnfield. He longed for his army overcoat, warm and totally without style. A fire burned in the grate of High Point's master bedroom, but it was a forlorn hope, competing with the wind that insinuated itself through every crack in the window frames. Lord, how do people live here? he thought as he shivered and opened the packet. Especially in October.
    He set aside the letter from Amabel, not feeling sufficiently strong to read it until the chill at least was off his feet. The letters from his solicitor could wait, and there were no