The Steward of Blackwood Hall

Chapter five - Mending fences

Anthony Fielding stood at the window, staring through the rain-washed panes as the remains of his breakfast sat congealing on the table behind him. What maggot had crawled into his brain that he had chosen to remain behind at Blackwood Hall, rather than returning with Mountford to town? It was incredibly uncomfortable to stay alone, in someone else's house, without company or conversation during the long autumn evenings. Solitary card games bored him, the sparse entertainment found in the library was barely worth perusing and he could only write so many letters to friends and family before he ran out of things to say.

He briefly regretted offering to sort out the disorder they had found upon their arrival, but Mountford knew no one else with the same breadth of experience, and he could not in all conscience call himself a friend if he had not stepped in to help.

How many hours had he spent as a boy with his father's steward? The serene calm permeating Meltham Park belied the industry that went on out of view, like the webbed feet paddling beneath the surface providing momentum to the stately swan. The current steward at Meltham was an excellent man, who cared a great deal about both the land and its people. It was only right that he should take the time to set Mountford's feet upon the same path at Blackwood.

While waiting for replies to his letters of enquiry, he had begun an inventory of the holdings, more for something to occupy him than for the benefit of the man who would take on the position. However, this simple task could not occupy his full attention, or prevent him from reflecting upon his female visitor. He had not been more than a few minutes in her company when she had called to ask for his help, so why did Miss Latimer still linger in his thoughts?

He could only put it down to the deplorable lack of stimuli, and maybe also curiosity. A young woman of marriageable age, who was not bursting her stays with the effort of gaining his attention, was a novel and rather pleasant experience for him. A pity, then, that there were not more ladies like her.

The door opened and the housekeeper poked her head into the room. She looked at the disordered table, sniffed, and then withdrew. Although he took little notice of other people's servants, the older woman—an archaic remnant of Sir George's reduced household—seemed to have taken him in dislike. Perhaps she objected to waiting upon a guest while the master of the house was away from home, but as long as she continued to do her work in an efficient manner he cared not a whit for her good opinion. 

Later that afternoon, while continuing his progress through the previous steward's almost indecipherable accounts, Joseph interrupted him. A young boy had been sent with a message, begging for his presence as mediator. Sheep had strayed through a broken fence, damaging crops belonging to a Blackwood tenant.

Having familiarised himself with the lay of the land, and those who worked it, Fielding knew that Mr. Green, the injured party, was the latest member of a family who had leased land from the Mountford family for at least two generations. The errant sheep had allegedly escaped from a neighbouring farm that was part of Mr. Latimer's holdings.

The rain had ceased, leaving lighter grey clouds hanging overhead, so Fielding agreed to view the damage. As he mounted his horse the thought flashed through his mind that he should send another in his place. He was not the steward here and was under no obligation to deal with this problem, but a lack of anything else to occupy his mind provoked him to get involved.

Upon his arrival at the farm, Mr. Green showed Fielding where the damage had occurred. The old farmer detailed at length the many issues that had arisen between himself and his neighbour over the years, painting Mr. Jacks as a slovenly fool who barely knew a horse from a hay rick. On the face of it the case was clear. Half an acre of winter crops had been trampled or eaten, and although the animals responsible were nowhere to be seen, the sight of their wool snagged on the broken spars of the fence offered damning evidence.