Read Chapter 3: The Englishman Arrives

The morning light was thin and grey, the kind that promised rain before noon. Maeve stood at the kitchen window, her hands wrapped around a cup of barley tea she had not touched. The yard beyond was empty—no cart, no horse, no sign of the Englishman. For three days she had watched the road, and for three days he had not come.

She had used the time well enough. The ledgers were in order, the dairy accounts transcribed twice. She had walked the west fields herself, noting where the barley had failed and where it had sickened. What she had not done was decide what to do about the name Ashworth.

The solicitor in Tuam who had signed her mortgage was a man named Richard Ashworth. The inspector arriving to judge her was Geoffrey Ashworth. Her brother-in-law, Liam, thought it coincidence. Her mother said nothing, which meant she thought it something worse.

Maeve had written a letter to the Galway merchant who held her seed loan, asking for a delay until after the Michaelmas fair. She had not received a reply. She had also walked past Cormac Sweeney's door three times without knocking, and each time she had told herself it was strategy and not cowardice.

The sound came first as a rumble, then as distinct wheels on the gravel. Maeve set down the cup and went to the front door.

The carriage was black, well-kept, and driven by a man in a clean coat. It stopped before the house, and for a moment nothing moved. Then the door opened and Geoffrey Ashworth stepped out.

He was younger than she had expected—perhaps thirty, perhaps less—with the pale, careful face of a man who had spent his life indoors with maps and ledgers. His coat was dark grey, his collar starched white, his boots polished to a dull gleam. He carried a leather satchel and an umbrella, though the rain had not yet come.

He looked at the house first, then at her, and inclined his head.

"Mrs. Kelly?"

"Maeve Brennan-Kelly." She kept her voice level. "You are the inspector?"

"Frederick Ashworth." He corrected her with a small smile. "Geoffrey is my brother. I understand there was some confusion."

Her heart dropped, but she did not let it show. A brother. The solicitor who had signed her mortgage and the inspector sent to judge her were brothers. She would have laughed if she had the breath for it.

"Come in," she said, stepping aside. "You have travelled far."

He crossed the threshold with the measured steps of a man who noticed everything. The hallway, the floorboards, the condition of the plaster—his eyes moved over it all, storing information. She led him to the small parlour where she had once entertained the priest and now entertained creditors.

"I have prepared tea," she said, though she had not. She rang the bell, and Mary appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed.

"Mary, tea for our guest."

The girl nodded and vanished. Seven years old, she had learned not to ask questions. Maeve gestured for Ashworth to sit, and he did, placing his satchel precisely at his feet.

"Your property is substantial," he said. "The holdings—how many acres?"

"Four hundred and twelve," she said. "One hundred and twenty under tillage, the rest pasture and bog."

"And the stock?"

"You will see them when you inspect."

He smiled again, thin and patient. "I hope to inspect everything, Mrs. Kelly. That is the purpose of my visit. The Galway and Atlantic Land Company wishes to determine whether this estate can yield enough to service its debts, or whether the land would be better employed in other hands."

Maeve felt the words land like stones in her chest. "Other hands."

"Larger operations. More efficient ones." He said it flatly, as if stating a fact of arithmetic. "The company is not in the business of charity, Mrs. Kelly. It is in the business of profit. When an estate is mortgaged to us, we have a duty to our shareholders to ensure that the land is productive."

"The land is productive," she said. "You will see that for yourself. My husband worked this estate for ten years, and I have kept it these past eighteen months. The fences are sound. The drainage holds. We have a good herd of dairy cattle, and the barley did better than most in the parish last season."

"Then you have nothing to fear from an inspection." He said it lightly, but his eyes were sharp, watching for her reaction.

The tea arrived. Mary set the tray down with shaking hands, and Maeve poured, giving herself a moment to gather her anger into something more useful.

"I will take you to the fields myself," she said. "But I should warn you, Mr. Ashworth—the east fields are not to be shown."

He paused, cup halfway to his lips. "Not to be shown?"

"Not today."

"Why not?"

"There is a tenant family there. The father has been ill, and the mother is with child. They are good people who have fallen on hard times. I will not have them gawped at like animals in a pen."

Ashworth set the cup down carefully. "Mrs. Kelly, I am not here to gawp at anyone. I am here to assess the viability of this property. If there are tenants who cannot pay, that is information the company needs."

"And you will have it," she said. "At the proper time. When the woman has given birth, and the family is on their feet again, you may see every field and every ledger. But you will not see them today, and you will not see them by ambush."

He studied her for a long moment. She met his gaze, steady as she could manage, though her hands were trembling beneath the table.

"You have a strong sense of loyalty," he said finally. "It is commendable. But I must tell you plainly, Mrs. Kelly—the company's patience is not infinite. If I determine that this estate cannot service its debts, I have the authority to force a sale."

The words sat in the silence between them. A sale. She had known it was possible, but hearing it spoken aloud made it real, made it heavy.

"A fire sale," she said. "To a larger operation. The land divided and sold off in bits, the tenants scattered to the roads."

"That is one possibility." He did not deny it.

"And that is what you have come to do."

He shrugged, a small, precise movement. "I have come to determine the facts, Mrs. Kelly. What happens after that is not my choice alone. But I will tell you this—an estate that hides its difficulties from its creditors is not an estate that inspires confidence."

Maeve felt the trap close around her. If she showed him the east fields, she exposed the Kellys' failures. If she refused, she confirmed them.

She rose, smoothing her apron. "Then you will see what there is to see," she said. "The west fields, the dairy, the barns. And tomorrow, God willing, you will have enough to make your report."

"Tomorrow?" He raised an eyebrow. "I had hoped to be done by the evening."

"You will have a great deal to inspect," she said. "And I am not so immodest as to think you can judge four hundred acres in a single day. Mary will show you to the spare room."

He hesitated, weighing options, then nodded. "Very well. Tomorrow."

She led him outside, her boots sinking into the mud. The rain had begun, light and persistent, the kind that soaked through wool and spirit alike. She heard him behind her, his footsteps careful, measuring the ground.

The west fields were her best. The barley stood green and tall, the ditches clear of weeds, the fences newly mended. She walked him along the edge of each field, answering his questions about drainage and rotation and yield—and every time he asked about the east, she turned the conversation elsewhere.

By the time they reached the dairy, his coat was wet and his patience thinner. He looked at the cows, the churns, the cleanliness of the stone floor. His questions grew sharper, more pointed.

"Your estate records show forty head of cattle," he said. "I count thirty-five."

"The culling was necessary," she said. "Feed was short after the weather last spring. You will find the matter noted in my records."

"Noted." He repeated the word as if tasting it. "You have an answer for everything, Mrs. Kelly."

"I have a memory for what I have done," she said. "Would you prefer I were forgetful?"

For the first time, something like amusement flickered across his face. "No," he said. "I would not prefer that at all."

They returned to the house as the light failed, wet and weary. Mary had set a fire in the parlour, and the warmth was a relief. Ashworth stood before it, his back to her, hands extended to the flames.

"You are a difficult woman to inspect," he said.

"I have been told worse."

He turned to face her. "I will look at the east fields tomorrow regardless. If you refuse, I will note it in my report as evidence of concealment. You understand what that means."

"I understand," she said. "And if you look, you will see a family in trouble—but you will also see a tenant who has been on this land for fifteen years, who has never missed a rent payment until his illness. Whatever you write, Mr. Ashworth, write the truth."

He said nothing. The fire crackled between them, and Maeve thought of Sweeney's threat to expose her, of the merchant's unpaid loan, of the £900 mortgage that hung over her land like a guillotine. She had three days to convince this man her estate was worth saving—but she had yet to learn what it would cost to do so.

She had the east fields in her pocket, and she would play that card at dawn. But she would need more. She would need to know why the Ashworths had marked her land, and what they planned to do with it once they took it.

That night, after Ashworth had retired to the spare room, Maeve sat in the kitchen and wrote another letter—this one to her solicitor in Tuam, the man who had signed her mortgage for Richard Ashworth. She would not wait for answers. She would go to Tuam herself, the moment the inspection was done.

The rain beat against the window, and somewhere above her head, the Englishman slept beneath her roof, dreaming of her land.