“Your father liked to visit the tenants, to ride over the land, to speak with the farmers. Sometimes with his bailiff and sometimes without.” They stopped when they came to the edge of one of the fields. He gazed out over the ploughboys, thrusting his hands into his overall pockets. “Your father was a different type of landholder than your brother.”
“Bedford doesn’t visit too much?”
“He does not.” He echoed Julia’s account of Bedford’s early years in London, filling in the later years that she could not account for. “Bedford returned about six years ago. First thing he did was to get a new bailiff, firin’ your father’s man. Rents were doubled and household repairs were to come out of our own pockets.” Mabry rubbed his neck. “Tenants left.” He nodded to the empty houses.
“We got by. A year passed, and Napoleon was defeated. The war with America also ended, and then the soldiers started comin’ home in droves. Millions of discharged veterans seekin’ work. Many willin’ to take lower wages to get it.” Mabry shrugged. “Your brother hired ’em. Cut our wages to match theirs. Then the Irish started comin’.” He nodded to the ploughboys, his expression grim. “An even cheaper labor. Gettin’ by got a bit harder, as many of us were forced off the fields. Not enough work for everyone. More tenants left.” Mabry kicked at a stone in the dirt, sending it skittering across the road. “The end of the wars also meant foreign grain could enter Britain, so our grain prices fell. In response, our wages were further lowered, while the price of bread rose.
“Last year was a bad harvest. We could have muddled through with what we reaped the year before, but many of the workers being immigrants and veterans, some have never farmed or worked the land before. They didn’t know to get the corn ricks thatched and covered before the first rain, and we lost half a crop. Rations down, people go hungry.” He faced Daniel. “Hungry people lead to poachin’ and crime. Lost a few cattle and some sheep last winter.
“Your brother soon started runnin’ through bailiffs. If one listened to our complaints, he was replaced.” He nodded in the direction of Bedford Hall. “Two more families gave notice ’cause ain’t no guarantee of work no more. Pretty soon all the work will go to seasonal laborers. If we resort to doing just seasonal work, we can’t claim relief from the poor rate because you have to work at least a year to be able to make a claim.”
Mabry spat on the ground and lifted his gaze to Daniel’s, bitterness contorting his features. “Sir, I suggest you have that talk with your brother. I suggest you do so before their ain’t no more of us left. I expect that’s not what you wanted to hear for your homecomin’, but somebody needs to hear it, fore it’s too late.” He clamped his jaw shut, and his brooding gaze moved back to the fields.
Mabry had said more than enough. Daniel looked out over the lines of ploughed earth, seeing nothing, his thoughts churning.
Robbie had written of the grumbles over Bedford’s management, and Taunton had warned of the same. Daniel had expected problems, but along the lines of neglected repairs, tenants’ feuds, bad crops, and the fallout of a poor harvest. Not this. A tale of stringent, penny-pinching, parsimonious management.
The six ducal properties, covering two hundred thousand acres, should bring in an annual income of eighty thousand pounds. It was a small fortune. Thus, it begged the question, why the bloody hell did Edmund need more money? Was he in debt? And what long-term price was he willing to pay to extract it?
The estate’s profits were reaped through the land. Without reliable, stable, and loyal men to work it, the whole system collapsed. It didn’t take an astute businessman to understand the age-old cycle, or that Edmund’s cost-cutting measures were like shoving a wedge into the spokes of a spinning wheel. If he continued unabated, everything would grind to a stop. Daniel’s words to Taunton echoed. Inadequate wages breeds disgruntled workers, which leads to mutiny or desertion. Not to mention, poaching and crime.
He scrubbed his hands down his face. Damn Edmund. Damn him for apparently not changing a whit in ten years. For being a cruel, selfish bastard.
He dropped his arms. Changes had to be made. He didn’t know what or how, but he had to intercede. Things could not continue on as they were. He recalled the letter that had lured him back to England. Claim your destiny. His eyes squinted out over the fields. This was his destiny. He might not be able to claim it, but he could bloody well save it. He’d have Robbie add it to his agenda.