Colin's Conundrum

Prologue“Gentlemen.” Colin Butler, Viscount Gelroy, addressed the ragged band of farmers gathered around him. Nods greeted him, but excessive displays of obeisance had long since collapsed. “How goes it?” he asked, stomach jumping. We're so close to disaster. Another month, Lord, please. And another idea. Any idea. A blond man in his early fifties, his hair streaked with silver, his face with dirt, scratched a cheek that seemed too hollow for his hearty frame and answered, “It could be worse, my lord. The red fescue is coming up nicely, along with clover and wildflowers. The fields look right pretty, and they have a chance to heal now.” Colin sighed. “Well, that's good, at least, Bullock. I appreciate how all of you agreed to this measure, despite the consequences of no money to pay the rents that go to taxes and the estate's debts. It won't be the first time, and at any point, the creditors may come after us.” “What choice did we have?” a small, rat-like man with a sharp nose and prominent front teeth piped in a voice too high for his age. “As depleted as everything is, it's not like we would have gotten any crops to speak of. We still have our animals and our gardens to sustain us. Are you sure, my lord, that you're willing to suffer the consequences of defaulting again?” “What else can I do? If we plant, nothing will grow. No money will come of our labors, and the end will be the same. If the creditors come, if I'm taken to a debtors' gaol, you'll have to leave, to seek employment elsewhere. Our estate, our land, will be abandoned and we'll scatter. That's the likeliest outcome, yet I see no other choice. We cannot plant.” The others muttered, and Colin could see the despair and exhausted rebellion in their eyes. He sighed. “I don't like to think that we shall finally fail, after all these years of toil.” “No one wants to,” Bullock said. “Do you have any ideas, my lord, to create income without crops?” Colin shook his head. “Not a one. I wish I did.” I also wish you'd stop calling me 'lord.' I hardly deserve it. Since inheriting the damned title, I've accomplished precious little to improve anything. He lifted his gaze to meet those of his tenants. Gray, blue and brown eyes all met his with the same expression of dogged determination paired with far too little hope. They're willing to die for this land, and they know they probably will. How many years has it taken from them, from me? Already, though only thirty-two, silver-streaked his temples and threaded through the darkness of his hair. Worry creased the corners of his mouth and crinkled his eyes. I could be a decade older. “I would appreciate a suggestion even if it's idiotic. Can anyone think of anything?” The men turned to look at one another. Shoulders lifted in defeated shrugs. After a long, exhausted moment, Bullock spoke. “What about animals, my lord?” “Animals?” Colin lowered his eyebrows and regarded his foreman. “Aye. My daughter's ewe had twin lambs, and my old bull managed to produce a calf. Fescue ain't bad grazing, and the sheep love the clover.” The idea wended its way slowly through Colin's mind. “Animals. Hmmm. How many animals are there?” “I have three goats, two sheep plus the lambs and a bull,” Bullock said. “Mind you, he's a stringy old thing, but he's still potent, as Farrell's cow can attest.” The weakly bawdy jest produced a round of tired chuckles. “But my paddocks are falling down, and I can't spare a single board to replace them. Not if I want to patch that hole in my wall.” And they'll have no money to buy supplies. The wall can only take so much mud patching before it's more patch than wall. “My chickens have been breeding like mad,” Billings volunteered. I've made a hobby of them since my wife passed, and they're thriving. “Don't forget,” Jones piped up, “the ducks in the pond have so many ducklings, it's a trouble not to step on the poor things.” From the beleaguered crowd, a mad plan began to hatch. “Are you suggesting,” Colin asked at last, “that we turn the fallow fields into a huge grazing pasture?” “Aye,” Farrell said quickly. “The breeding season ain't over yet. Maybe we can sell critters at market. They'll help the land heal too, they will.” “Or,” he said, speaking without thought, “we could take them to London. Country-bred animals command higher prices in the city.” A murmur greeted him. “That might just do the trick,” Bullock said thoughtfully. “If we can sell the chickens and ducks at midsummer and the lambs and geese in fall, it might not cover the entire cost of taxes and debts, but could it be enough?” It won't, he thought, but then, a newspaper article flitted across Colin's mind. Pesadilla is retiring from racing. Why did that stick with me? Something about his owner… about a favor I forgot to call in… Animals, hmmm. “Perhaps. You pose an interesting notion, gentlemen. I think there's merit here. Maybe we won't lose our situation after all. I need to head to London one last time, to make a few arrangements, and then I'll be back. In the meanwhile, feel free to move your animals to the fields.” Nods and grins greeted his announcement. We'll not see prosperity in our lifetimes, but maybe these men can leave their children more than mere survival.