“First, you’ll have to move all that mud,” Radnor retorted. “Tons and tons, and that’s effort that could be spent laying foundations, sinking a shaft, or building the tram line.”
Jones took a deep breath, clearly filling his sails to defend his position.
“I’d like to hear my wife’s suggestion,” Sherbourne said. “Women bring a different perspective to the whole matter of domestication.”
Now the other three men looked at him—Jones incredulous, Radnor amused, and Haverford politely agog—while Sherbourne regarded Charlotte calmly.
“My suggestion would be along the top of the north ridge.”
“Then we can’t excavate any levels up there,” Jones began, referring to mines dug laterally into the side of a hill. “Need I remind you that the purpose of these works is to extract coal from the—”
“We aren’t planning on digging any levels,” Radnor retorted. “Not for at least the next five years, and we have hills to the east and west if levels for some reason become imperative.”
“Nothing about this mine is imperative,” Haverford growled. “Not one damn—single thing, but the miners must have decent housing if this project goes forward. Mrs. Sherbourne, can you show us where you have in mind?”
With disagreement from all sides, no wonder Sherbourne was worried, and that was before Haverford had started making unpleasant innuendos about the mine’s sole investor. Charlotte abruptly wanted to trot back to the house and spend the day writing letters to her sisters in Scotland.
“Of course, she can show us where she’d like to see the houses built,” Sherbourne said. “Madam?”
He gestured to the tent flap, and Charlotte preceded the men into the brisk sunshine.
“Up there,” she said, shading her eyes and pointing. “Two rows of houses will fit easily without encroaching on the pasture. One can see the ocean from that hilltop, and drainage won’t be a problem.”
Neither would failed retaining walls or a contaminated well.
Jones sputtered about having to build a track up the side of the hill, for the houses wouldn’t raise themselves, and Radnor countered with an observation that nothing was being built anywhere as long as certain people insisted on arguing away half the morning.
“Let’s have a look,” Haverford said, striding away in the direction of the path up the hill. “Using skilled masons to move mud is an abomination against the natural order and damned slow work.”
“You’re right, of course,” Sherbourne said. “No mason has ever had to do a spot digging, square up a foundation trench, or deal with mud and mortar.” Sherbourne went off with the duke, arguing all the while, and Jones and Radnor followed, bickering like a pair of tipsy washerwomen.
Charlotte trailed along behind the men, grateful that she’d worn sturdy boots and resentful that her husband had to defend himself from accusations flung by a duke who’d probably never lifted a shovel in his titled life.
Halfway up the hill, Charlotte realized that she had landed herself in a pickle. The last time she’d traveled this path, she’d had her husband’s entire focus and held hands with him. She hadn’t given the height a thought, a miracle she’d consider later. Now Sherbourne was remonstrating with Haverford thirty yards ahead, closer to the summit.
To Charlotte’s left, the hillside rose steeply, while to her right…“Do not look,” she muttered. “Do not look. You are safe. The ground is solid beneath your feet, you have been this way before, and Sherbourne is counting on you.”
She looked, and—no surprise—the works appeared tiny at the foot of the hill. The men were miniature figures digging through the great mass of earth that had obliterated the planned housing site. The stacks of equipment were so many toys strewn about, and the white tent sat in the middle, much, much too distant.
Charlotte forced herself to gaze up the path, though now Sherbourne was forty yards away. Her heartbeat became painful and her breathing inadequate to fill her lungs. If she fell…
“Mister…” Her voice came out barely above a whisper, and vertigo threatened her balance. “Mr. Sherbourne.”
He couldn’t hear her, not with the distance and wind. He’d soon round the last curve of the path and be lost to sight. Charlotte would die, lifted off the hillside by a gust of wind, and dropped onto the hard ground far below.
Panic threatened.
“Lucas, please help—” The ground lurched, though of course it hadn’t really. “Do not look. Sit down,” Charlotte lectured herself. “Sit down right here, right now, and the men will find you when they are finished arguing, or when spring comes, or when…I can’t do this.”
Those four men would never cease arguing, and when they found her, Sherbourne would be mortified that his wife couldn’t even traverse a Welsh hillside without turning into a blithering ninny. Charlotte could not move, could not turn her head, could not figure out how to sink to her knees without toppling down the incline to her right.
She could only gaze up the path, at her husband’s retreating form, hating her weakness and wishing she’d never thought to intrude into matters beyond her ken.
Though building the houses in the middle of the colliery itself had been a truly daft idea.
“Charlotte!”
Sherbourne’s voice. He was jogging back down the path, coming nearer with each step. “Charlotte, are you well?”
She closed her eyes. He might misstep, he might go plummeting over the side of the hill, he might twist his ankle on a loose rock, he might—
“I’ve got you,” Sherbourne said, wrapping her in his arms. “Say something. You’re pale as the angel Gabriel’s wings. Please say something.”
Hold me, which came out as “Meep.” He was warm, he was solid, and Charlotte could breathe. She tried again. “I am being ridiculous.”
“I should not have left you without an escort. The height is bothering you, isn’t it? Damn it, what was I thinking. I’ll have you down the hill in a trice.”
Charlotte shook her head. “I should be able to do this. This is merely a hill.”
“It’s a damned high hill, with a good drop if you take a wrong step. Damn it, damn it, blast and damn it.”
Charlotte gradually realized that Sherbourne was more upset than she was. For him, she could muster some calm, provided he kept his arms around her.
“I have been up this hill before,” she said. “If your miners are to dwell on the summit, I will be here frequently. Shall we proceed?”
“Are you sure?”
She loved him—loved him—for asking that, for the concern in his voice, for the earnest regard in his blue eyes. He’d asked her the same question in bed last night, but this time seemed even more significant.
“I am quite sure. Hold my hand, and we shall contrive.”
He not only held her hand, he walked on the outer side of the path, talked to her about Radnor’s argument earlier with Jones regarding the tram line, and step by step got her to the hilltop.
Every inch of the way, Charlotte held her husband’s hand, until she was at the summit, pacing off a row of houses, and mentally laying out gardens and chicken coops, while trying to ignore the burning revelation that she loved her husband.
* * *
“I didn’t think they were a love match,” Radnor said, as Sherbourne and his lady sauntered down the hill hand in hand.
“Why do you conclude they are?” Haverford countered.
“When was the last time you remained hand in hand with your duchess in public for a good half hour?”
“You ask a very personal question, Radnor. You’re newly married yourself. Draw your own conclusions.”
The wind at the top of the hill was brisk, which Charlotte had pointed out would dry laundry quickly. The breeze was also likely to be free of coal dust, given that the prevailing direction was from land toward the sea. Fresh air was healthier for all concerned, and the air where the houses had originally been laid out would not have been fresh at all.
Eve
n Sherbourne hadn’t seen that, but neither had Haverford, Radnor, or Jones.
“I hold hands with my marchioness with lovely frequency,” Radnor said, “though seldom in public. Sherbourne has fallen for that red-haired dragoness.”
Haverford felt an odd affection for Charlotte Windham. She was bold, awkward, and—most unexpected—ferociously protective of her new husband. What had Lucas Sherbourne done to deserve such a champion, much less a woman bristling with intelligence and sense?
“That red-haired dragoness is my sister by marriage, Radnor. She and Sherbourne do seem to suit.”
“Unlike Sherbourne and Jones. Did Sherbourne explain to you Jones’s error with the retaining wall?”
Sherbourne and his bride, still hand in hand, disappeared around a bend in the path.
“No explanation yet, and one doesn’t want to ask. Sherbourne is devilish prickly where I am concerned.”
Radnor had been friends with Haverford since they’d been breeched, and now, having married Haverford’s sister, Radnor was family. They had few secrets, though Haverford was prepared for marriage to change their friendship.
“You are devilish prickly where Sherbourne is concerned,” Radnor retorted. “You haven’t any coin invested in this venture, you have no expertise with mining, so what exactly do you think your hovering about accomplishes?”
“I can’t hover about my duchess every hour of the day. The lady needs her rest.”
Radnor punched him on the arm. “Admit you are worried for Sherbourne. Jones isn’t the engineering paragon he presents himself to be, not if he forgets to calculate the weight of rainwater in topsoil when designing a retaining wall.”
Good God. “Is that what went wrong?”
“Charlotte Sherbourne figured it out, and thank the angelic choruses, Sherbourne listens to her. She has good ideas.”
She was also pretty, in a robust, severe way. Elizabeth was prettier, of course. “Mrs. Sherbourne knows as much about mining as I do. If Jones is incompetent, he’ll have to be replaced.”
“He’s probably a decent mining engineer, but no sort of architect. I’ve dabbled in the occasional design project, enough to draw a few elevations.”
“Jones hasn’t?”
Radnor gazed down at the great heap of earth lying atop the planned street. Whole trees had come along with the side of the hill, and were now standing upright a hundred yards from where they’d been last week.
“Jones has never designed a dwelling, or a surface structure of any kind, and did not admit his limitations until they were obvious. He needs this post, I suspect, and I’m making inquiries in Swansea and Cardiff regarding his work history. I also consulted with Glenys regarding Lord Brantford.”
Radnor had been busy, in other words, while Haverford had been…not much help at all. “What did Glenys have to say?”
“Brantford married an heiress, or so he thought. Turns out the woman’s family had put every available groat into her settlements, and their fortunes have continued to decline since she married Brantford.”
These things happened. They’d happened to Haverford’s own family for the past hundred years. “Is Sherbourne supposed to send coin pouring into the earl’s family coffers?”
Radnor’s gaze dropped to his boots, which were wet from tromping about the hilltop. “Sherbourne has a fine grasp of finances, Haverford. I invested in this mine because I’ve made money with him on two previous projects, though I resorted to intermediaries to handle the details.”
“You’re not suggesting I invest in the mine?”
“If you’re not an investor, and you know nothing about mining, then what in blazes are you doing here?” Radnor’s tone was mild, but then, his tone was always mild when he was delivering a coup de grace. Only fools underestimated Cedric Radnor.
Fools and, occasionally, best friends.
“I don’t know, but sometimes a disinterested third party has a useful perspective, witness Charlotte’s opinions about the houses. What do we do about Jones?”
“We watch him closely. Find somebody to review all of his calculations, let Sherbourne know that engineers are employees, not dictators.”
“I can help with that last part. Where has Jones got off to?”
“The coaching inn. Griffin says he’s there rather a lot.”
Griffin had passed that along to Radnor, rather than to his own brother? “I’m off to have a word with Griffin, and I’ll see you tomorrow night. Elizabeth will probably inveigle Glenys into helping with the lending library scheme.”
“Glenys will have to dodge that fire on her own, for Her Grace has already sent out the press gangs after my handsome self.”
Haverford started down the hill. “Do you suppose the climb truly winded Charlotte? She seems a healthy woman.”
“Who knows? Perhaps she was laced too tightly. Sherbourne’s concern was real.”
True, and seeing Lucas Sherbourne in a flat panic over a woman who could literally shoot a man’s arrows out of the sky had relieved an anxiety Haverford didn’t entirely understand.
“Elizabeth loves those lending libraries,” Haverford said, “and they are being established largely because of Sherbourne. If anything happens to him or his fortunes, my duchess will take it amiss.”
Radnor kept right on walking. “Oh, of course. The lending libraries. If anything happens to Her Grace’s little sister, your duchess will take it much worse than amiss, and Her Grace’s little sister seems much taken with Sherbourne.”
“Ergo, nothing awful must happen to Sherbourne. As distasteful as the duty to safeguard his venture will be, you have the right of it. For the sake of my duchess, Sherbourne’s interests must be guarded.”
That logic worked as well as any, though Elizabeth would see right through it.
Chapter Fifteen
Charlotte was poised and relaxed—to appearances—as her dinner guests moved from the formal parlor into the dining room. As hostess, she took Haverford’s arm, leaving Sherbourne to escort the duchess.
“Is Charlotte as happy as she seems?” Her Grace murmured.
“You should ask her,” Sherbourne replied. “I pray she’ll answer in the affirmative.”
“She’s your wife, sir. I hope you’ll trouble yourself to read her moods.”
Sherbourne allowed the duchess her scold, because she spoke as a concerned sister, not as Her Grace of Haverford.
“We have been married barely a fortnight, and we had no courtship, at the insistence of the bride’s family. If I do not presume to speak for my wife’s happiness, I am acknowledging my ignorance as a new husband, not my indifference.”
“You’ll suit,” the duchess said, patting his arm. “Charlotte thrives on confrontation and challenge.”
No, she does not. Charlotte thrived on solving problems, on being of use, though her talents were not those a lady typically cultivated—thank God.
Griffin St. David, escorting his sister Lady Radnor, nearly collided with them at the door to the dining room. He grinned, bowed, and let Sherbourne escort the duchess to her seat. Lady Griffin was on Radnor’s arm, though in this company Charlotte had decided the couple would be addressed as Griffin and Biddy.
By extension, they were Sherbourne’s family now, too, the pick of the lot in his estimation.
The dining room was large enough to hold thirty at supper, though Charlotte had had all the extra leaves removed from the table. Bowls of heartsease served as centerpieces, and two footmen stood by the sideboard. The meal would be informal, and thus conversation could fly in all directions.
Sherbourne suspected this was how the Windham family typically dined.
His correspondence that morning had included letters from two of Charlotte’s titled cousins—both earls—while Charlotte had received letters from one sister and yet another cousin—a duchess and a marchioness.
“Now we all sit down,” Griffin announced, “and we have witty conversation.” He beamed at the company, as if pleased to instruct them.
“Exactly so,” Sherbourne said, “and we enjoy good food as well. Haverford, I nominate you, as the ranking title, to lead the witty repartee.”
The duke left off goggling at his duchess long enough to deliver a pointed stare in Sherbourne’s direction. “Surely that is mine host’s privilege?”
“We had a lovely visit with the vicar yesterday,” Charlotte said. “Miss MacPherson is a delightful young lady. Very dedicated to supporting her papa’s work.”
The lovely visit had consisted of tepid, weak tea, served with small, stale cakes and not many of them. Charlotte had finagled an invitation to join the lady’s charitable committee while Sherbourne had endured Mr. MacPherson’s innuendos about christenings that followed too soon after weddings.
“We should find Miss MacPherson a fellow,” the duchess said, “or she’ll be her father’s unpaid curate for the rest of her days.”
“Maybe she likes life at the vicarage,” Charlotte countered. “Not every woe is solved by marriage.”
“My every woe has been solved by marriage.” Griffin was in complete earnest, and his comment earned smiles and laughter. Biddy blew him a kiss across the table—most unladylike behavior, but then, why not let a husband know he was appreciated?
“If we’re looking for spouses,” Griffin went on, “couldn’t we find one for Maureen Caerdenwal? She has a baby, so she should have a husband.”
Haverford, Radnor, Lady Radnor, and the duchess all reached for their wineglasses simultaneously.
“A fine notion,” Charlotte said, “one that speaks well of your kind-heartedness, Griffin. If we can’t find the young woman a husband, perhaps you could spare her some chickens?”
“We have lots of chickens,” Griffin replied. “Biddy and I will take Miss Caerdenwal some hens. Then the baby can have eggs. We’ll bring a big basket, as big as the one Miss Charlotte sent, and just as full of good things.”
“We’ll do it tomorrow,” Biddy said, “unless it rains.”
“If it rains, we’ll go the day after tomorrow.”
Griffin and Biddy shared a gaze of such mutual approval, Sherbourne could not look away. They were a couple completely without artifice, entirely besotted, and entirely unconcerned what anybody thought of them.
A Rogue of Her Own Page 20
