“I’m bringing honey and tea to a neighbor,” Miss MacPherson said. “I’ve only another mile or so to travel.”
“That mile will be muddy going. Morgan, please assist Miss MacPherson into the gig.”
The groom heaved a put-upon sigh, wrapped the reins, and hopped down. Miss MacPherson passed Charlotte her basket—laden with bricks from the weight of it—and climbed onto the bench.
“Very kind of you, Mrs. Sherbourne,” Miss MacPherson said. “I’ve avoided a soaking so far, but the sky promises more rain.”
“This is Wales. Without the rain, the land couldn’t be so beautifully green.”
“With that attitude, you’ll get on well here. Everybody’s dying to meet you.”
Charlotte was not dying to meet everybody, though for Sherbourne’s sake, she’d become the most gracious hostess in the valley, if need be.
“You must assist me,” Charlotte said, for a vicar’s daughter knew every household in the parish. “Upon whom should I call first?”
As the horse plodded along, Miss MacPherson verbally sketched a whole rural community. The Duke and Duchess of Haverford sat at the apex of the valley’s society, though the Marquess of Radnor and his lady—Haverford’s sister—were also much respected and well liked.
Beneath the duke and marquess were squires and farmers, the old feudal pattern in a modern setting. The village included various trades—a blacksmith, carpenter, apothecary, bakery, and the usual assortment of lesser commercial establishments.
“We also have a lending library, of course,” Miss MacPherson said. “Her Grace stops in frequently, though she delivers books more often than she borrows them. But then, she’s your sister. You’d know that about her.”
“Her Grace has made lending libraries a passion, and enlisted my husband’s support for her cause.”
Charlotte made that comment in hopes Miss MacPherson would pounce upon mention of Sherbourne, for he’d been notably absent from her recitation.
“Her Grace was clever, putting the Sherbourne resources to use in such a fashion,” Miss MacPherson said. “We were all pleased to see her pull that off. Hector, I’ll get down at the crossroads.”
Pull that off. As if Sherbourne’s coin was hard to access, despite the fact that he was sinking a fortune into a local mine.
“Miss MacPherson, my husband would like to remark the occasion of our marriage with another charitable endeavor, besides the libraries he’s financing all over Wales. Could you suggest a suitable gesture? He wants to undertake a project to benefit the whole community, something in addition to establishing a model colliery.”
One he’d said would not make him rich, but would be managed according to enlightened standards established by the damned duke.
The dear duke, rather.
“A charitable endeavor?” Miss MacPherson asked as the gig slowed. “You mean, like purchasing new hymnals?”
“No denizen of Wales over the age of seven needs a hymnal. Something enduring.”
As a marriage should be.
“Haverford keeps most of the valley in good trim,” Miss MacPherson said. “He sees to the roads and ditches about his estate, which is the majority of the arable land. Lord Radnor’s papa bought us an organ not fourteen years ago, so we’ve no need in that direction. Perhaps you might walk with me for a bit and we can discuss this topic further?”
The crossroad was a quagmire. “If you’ve only a short way to go, we’ll take you.”
Morgan apparently knew Miss MacPherson’s destination because he took the left turning and drove on in silence for a few hundred yards, then turned again onto a narrow pair of ruts barely deserving of the term lane.
He handed Miss MacPherson down at a small stone cottage with a thatched roof and a door bearing a peeling coat of red paint. A waist-high stone wall surrounded the yard, though no chickens were in evidence.
“Who lives here?” Charlotte asked, as Morgan handed her down.
“Maureen Caerdenwal and her mother,” Miss MacPherson said. “I’ll not be introducing you.”
A baby’s squall pierced the chilly air. A healthy child, though not at the moment a happy one.
“I see.”
Miss MacPherson’s gaze was not so friendly now. “She’s sixteen, Mrs. Sherbourne, and took her first job in service in Cardiff working as an upstairs maid for a man who owns several ironworks. Somebody has to support Mrs. Caerdenwal, because her husband and son were both killed in the mines over by Swansea. Maureen came home in less than six months, and six months later the baby showed up. That was in spring.”
To lose a father and a brother, and one’s respectability…“And the child?”
“Half a year old, more or less. A boy.”
The baby had stopped crying, and a curtain had twitched.
The household had curtains. The yard was tidy, the steps swept, the roof in good repair. This had been a respectable household until some iron nabob hadn’t been able to keep his footman, or himself, or his son, in line.
“Has she told you who the father is?”
“He promised to marry her. A rich man like that, twice her age and more. He was lying, of course. Maureen is a hard worker, not that bright, and too pretty for her own good.”
She wouldn’t be pretty for long, not trying to eke out an existence with no help and no coin.
“Who owns this land?”
“Griffin St. David, the duke’s younger brother. He’s…”
“Different, I know. I am fond of Lord Griffin.” Some might call Griffin simple, but to Charlotte he was honest, friendly, kind, and decent.
Very decent. He was likely charging the women no rent.
Hector Morgan stood by the horse’s head, his expression severe. He might not personally judge Miss Caerdenwal for her fall from grace, but if Sherbourne disapproved of this detour, Morgan could lose his job.
If I weren’t married…But Charlotte was married, and Sherbourne’s standing in the community mattered to him, as it should.
“I would not want to intrude on the family’s privacy without warning,” Charlotte said, “because I am a stranger to them. I will send a basket to the vicarage tomorrow, and ask that you see it delivered where it will do the greatest good.”
The curtain twitched again.
“I can do that,” Miss MacPherson said slowly. “I can do that as often as the need arises, Mrs. Sherbourne.” Her gaze was more than friendly now; it was conspiratorial.
“My thanks,” Charlotte said, “and you will consider what charitable project my husband might undertake in addition to the libraries?” And the mine.
Miss MacPherson set down her basket on the garden wall. “Something enduring? I will think on this, Mrs. Sherbourne, and put the question to my father as well, but Haverford has always taken quite good care of us.”
By the grace of Lucas Sherbourne’s generosity. “We can discuss charitable projects further when my husband and I call at the vicarage. Please give my neighbors my regards.”
Miss MacPherson beamed at Charlotte, a blessing of a smile that turned a dreary day sunny, and reminded Charlotte very much of Fern Porter.
“I will do that. Good day, Mrs. Sherbourne, and thank you.”
“One does what one can, Miss MacPherson. My husband and I will call at the vicarage in the near future.” Not a word of the Caerdenwals’ situation would be discussed at that visit, all would be tea and shortbread, the weather, and the latest local wedding.
Miss MacPherson waited by the gate while Morgan assisted Charlotte back into the gig.
“We put Miss MacPherson down at the crossroads,” Charlotte said. “She insisted.”
Morgan’s expression eased. “If you say so, ma’am.”
“I do, and Miss MacPherson will say so too.”
They rattled along in silence all the way to the castle drive. The sun made occasional attempts to poke through the clouds, but the overcast soon swallowed up errant sunbeams.
“I won’t be long, Morgan.
Two cups of tea for you in the kitchen, and I should be ready to go.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
Charlotte wanted to spend time with her sister, of course, but she also wanted to get back to Sherbourne Hall, where she would find the biggest basket on the premises and set about filling it before her husband came home from the colliery.
* * *
“I’m sorry,” Sherbourne said, closing the front door on a sharp gust of wind. “I should have asked you when you’d scheduled dinner.”
Charlotte did not look happy to see her husband, and Sherbourne was guessing at the reason. Darkness had fallen before he’d left off tramping about the works, Hannibal Jones jabbering at his elbow.
Charlotte whisked Sherbourne’s top hat from his head. “Your apology is not accepted. I should have asked when you planned to return from the colliery.” She passed the hat to Crandall, then started on the buttons of Sherbourne’s greatcoat. “You are soaked to the skin, sir. Might I suggest a hot bath before we dine?”
He’d fall asleep in the tub, had done so on many occasions and awakened all the more stiff and cold, because Turnbull allowed foolish employers to reap the results of their decisions.
“My horse slipped in the mud and came up lame,” Sherbourne said, as Charlotte worked her way down the front of his greatcoat. “I had to walk him most of the way back.” In the dark, in the cold, in the pouring rain, cursing like a schoolboy given extra sums to do in detention. “I’m more interested in food than a bath at present.”
“Thank goodness the beast didn’t send you into the ditch. Crandall, you’ll need to hang Mr. Sherbourne’s coat in the kitchen if it’s to dry by morning.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
“And please have Mr. Sherbourne’s warmest dressing gown brought to the library. We’ll take trays there, and a toddy wouldn’t go amiss.”
“I’ll see to it, ma’am.”
She peeled Sherbourne’s sodden coat from his shoulders, and the chill of the unheated foyer penetrated to his bones.
“The fire in the bedroom must be built up as well,” Charlotte went on, “for Mr. Sherbourne will have a bath after we’ve eaten.”
“Very good, ma’am.”
“Don’t just stand about looking dignified, Crandall. Please take Mr. Sherbourne’s coat to the kitchen this instant.”
Crandall bowed and withdrew, the sopping coat leaving a damp trail on the carpet.
“What are you grinning at,” Charlotte asked, fussing with Sherbourne’s hair. “You’d think he had nothing better to do than eavesdrop.”
“He doesn’t. I don’t believe anybody has ever scolded Crandall for looking dignified.”
Charlotte kissed Sherbourne’s cheek. “Gracious, you’re cold. I’ve been wanting to do that since you walked in the door, but didn’t know if—”
Sherbourne kissed her on the mouth. “I’ve been wanting to do that since you knocked my arrow from its path at Haverford’s house party this summer.”
They stood smiling at each other until a shiver passed over Sherbourne.
“To the library with you,” Charlotte said, taking his hand in a warm grasp. “What did you and Mr. Jones get up to this afternoon?”
Sherbourne cast back over hours spent arguing, explaining, and insisting. Haverford had given grudging support to the mine on condition that it meet high standards for safety, while Jones, veteran of years in the coalfields, knew every corner there was to cut.
“I’ll be curious to see what Brantford makes of some of Jones’s reasoning,” Sherbourne said.
Charlotte had taken Sherbourne’s green dressing gown from the footman, held the garment to the fire screen, then wrapped it around Sherbourne in place of his coat. The bliss of finally being warm, of having soft cushions to sink into, was exceeded only by the pleasure of hot soup and fresh, generously buttered bread consumed while regaling Charlotte with the day’s efforts at the works.
“Who is this Brantford?” Charlotte passed over another slice of bread. “You’ve mentioned him, though I can’t place the name—or is Brantford a title?”
“The Earl of Brantford has become a junior partner in the mine.” Sherbourne dipped his bread into the soup, then realized his wife was watching him. “Sorry.”
“Mr. Sherbourne, we are private, and you are famished. I’d rather you get some food into you than impress me with your manners. I like to dip shortbread in my tea.”
“I’d like, given the circumstances, for you to call me Lucas.” Two hours from now, they would be in bed, and he desperately hoped Charlotte had decided the occasion was right to consummate their vows.
She’d threatened as much. Mrs. Lucas Sherbourne was not a woman who made threats lightly.
“Were you named for Luke the Physician?”
“I was nearly named for the Fiend. I arrived to this world at the start of a new day. When I was placed in my mother’s arms, she gazed out the window to behold the dawn star on the far horizon, and decided I should be Lucifer. My father persuaded her that a saint would be a more fitting namesake than a fallen angel. What of you?”
“Nothing so colorful as a biblical debate. I was named for the late queen, of course. Tell me about this partner of yours.”
“He’s forward-thinking, he agreed to my terms, and he has coin to invest. I won’t make him enormously wealthy, but neither will I squander his money and disappear on the next packet for Calais. If you don’t care to finish your soup, I’ll see that it doesn’t go to waste.”
Another breach of manners, though Charlotte passed over her bowl.
“I wonder why I haven’t heard much about Lord Brantford. Is his seat in the north?”
“It is, which is why he has experience with mines. God help me if he decides to pay us a call before I get Jones sorted out.”
Charlotte tore a slice of bread in half. “Pay us a call? We’re to have a visitor?”
Shabby table manners hadn’t caused her to blink, and she’d taken in stride a husband who’d twice neglected to appear on time for dinner. The prospect of a visitor had her sitting up very straight.
“He’ll probably stay with Haverford, being titled, but I do respect when a man takes an interest in his investments.”
“Does Lord Brantford have a countess? Children? If he’s thinking to visit soon, I must have details, Mr. Sherbourne. Guest rooms must be prepared, the wine cellar put in order, menus decided, a dinner party or two planned. Guests are not a small matter, sir.”
Mr. Sherbourne, spoken in that tone, did not bode well for the balance of the evening. “You’re nervous about having company?”
“We are newly married, and first impressions matter, as I suspect you know. Am I a good hostess? Do I set a fine table? Can I assemble a group of guests who are both lively and congenial even when I’m new to the shire myself? You don’t undertake an investment without significant planning, and my role as your wife is similar. I will be scrutinized by Lord Brantford, and he will carry a report to his countess. She will have correspondents, and thus my reputation as a hostess will be established or doomed.”
Sherbourne had taken Brantford on as an investor without thorough investigation—he’d had time for only the usual inquiries—and now, more than a week later, that decision resulted in unease.
“You think Brantford will carry tales because we married in haste?” Sherbourne asked.
Charlotte took a nibble of her bread. “We did not marry in haste, as far as anybody knows. I met you this summer, and many couples in polite society marry by special license after a short courtship.”
Their marriage would be subject to greater scrutiny because Charlotte Windham had married down. Just when Sherbourne had convinced himself that the difference in their stations didn’t matter, doubt reared its ugly head.
“Don’t fret,” Sherbourne said, cutting into a serving of steak. “If the weather stays this nasty, the roads alone will prevent anybody from journeying into the wilds of Wales. Did you visit your sister toda
y?”
Charlotte recounted her visit to Haverford Castle, most of which she’d spent listening to Elizabeth discuss the infernal lending libraries. The moment had shifted however, from a husband and wife enjoying a private meal at the end of the day, to a wife humoring her thoughtless husband.
Again.
“Shall I see to your bath?” Charlotte asked, taking the trays to the sideboard. “The water should be hot by now.”
Sherbourne was warm and fed, and had he been a bachelor, he would have stretched out on the sofa, and drifted off after a long and tiring day.
“A bath would be appreciated.” Particularly if Charlotte was offering to attend him. Spouses did that for each other in some marriages.
“I’ll let Turnbull know,” she said, “and have the footman take these trays. Would you like another toddy?”
He’d like his wife to sit in his lap and kiss him until his eyes crossed. “No, thank you.”
“Good night, then. Enjoy your bath, Mr. Sherbourne.” She withdrew on a soft click of the door latch, probably off to drag Crandall into the wine cellar for a late night inventory of the clarets.
“My name is Lucas,” he muttered to the empty room. “Not Mr. Sherbourne, not husband, not sir. To my wife, when we’re alone, late at night, I’d like to be Lucas.”
* * *
“Good evening.” Brantford offered the greeting with a slight smile, which his wife returned. They avoided one another socially, though occasional encounters happened.
“My lord. I hope you’re enjoying the music.”
Veronica was still pretty, still lovely even, but she was no longer dewy.
“I am very partial to a well-played pianoforte,” Brantford said. “And you, my dear?”
Around them polite society gossiped, laughed, and watched. Brantford and his countess were known to be cordially bored with each other. Her ladyship had failed to produce offspring, and thus her diversions were limited to the insipid variety.
Poor thing.
“I thought the violinist was superb,” Veronica said. “Would you like to sit with us?”
Across the room, her second cousin, Tremont, Viscount Enderly, nodded politely. Doubtless his mama, the viscountess, was at the punch bowl mentally assessing the settlements of any young lady who offered her son so much as a simper.
A Rogue of Her Own Page 13
