Chapter Seventeen
“Why must every house party include a visit to the village?” Charlotte grumbled.
She walked arm in arm with Elizabeth, both of them having declined to accompany Aunt Arabella in Haverford’s enormous landau.
“Because the local merchants need the custom,” Elizabeth replied, “and it is a truth universally acknowledged that ladies need to shop.” Besides, the guests hadn’t left Haverford Castle except to attend services, and the house party was well into its second week.
“I hate to shop.”
Charlotte could be that honest because she and Elizabeth were walking ahead of the general multitude. Elizabeth had chosen to lead this charge so she wouldn’t have to watch Haverford offering his arm to Miss Trelawny, or Miss Penhathaway, or Miss…
Any of the damned misses.
“I have an alternate assignment for you,” Elizabeth said, “if you’re determined to keep hold of your pin money. Please make sure Sherbourne stays away from me.”
The road was rutted and dry. Charlotte kicked a stone out of one of the ruts, right up onto the verge.
“You truly don’t care for Sherbourne? I like his waistcoats.”
Perhaps Windham women had a weakness for men in colorful waistcoats. “That is the first thing you’ve liked about anybody since we arrived at this house party.”
“He’s not afraid to go his own way. Sherbourne isn’t stupid either.”
Elizabeth drew Charlotte off the road so the landau could clatter past. “But is he honorable? While you are hanging on his arm and admiring hair ribbons, I will be questioning the shopkeepers about their prices.” After a proper inspection of the village lending library, of course.
“That is not fair, Bethan. If you get to meddle, I should get to meddle too.”
“You are diverting the enemy, or at least thwarting his reconnaissance.”
Charlotte dropped Elizabeth’s arm and resumed walking. “Sherbourne likes money. It’s all very well for the aristocracy to pretend money doesn’t exist, because they have pots of it. The rest of the world starves without money, and I don’t judge a man for being mindful of that fact.”
Sherbourne had appointed himself Elizabeth’s partner in the card room for the past three nights. He played with a calculated skill barely hidden behind party manners. Sherbourne did not like money, he coveted it—money from the pockets of Haverford’s guests in any case.
Elizabeth wondered if he didn’t also covet her.
He was properly attentive, and not without humor. He was also not Haverford, and now this—Charlotte liked his waistcoats.
This entire house party was a nightmare, but for the hours Elizabeth had stolen with Haverford in the book room.
“Regardless of Mr. Sherbourne’s affection for coin,” Elizabeth said, “I’d rather do my shopping without his escort. Mrs. St. David would be an ideal partner for me, because she’ll know many of the local merchants.”
“She and Mr. St. David went off looking for fossils this morning.”
The village came into view on the far side of an arched stone bridge. Tudor façades were interspersed with stone cottages and shops along a cobbled street. Potted flowers contrasted with the granite and whitewashed architecture, creating a cheerful, tidy air.
“Are you envious of Mr. and Mrs. St. David, Charlotte?”
“He’s devoted to her. I hadn’t expected that.”
“I don’t think she did either.”
As it happened, Hugh and Delphine St. David ended up in the village tavern at noon, along with the rest of the party. Elizabeth had spent her morning on Sir Nigel Windstruther’s arm, and had had to rebuke him only once for standing too close to her.
She took the seat next to Mrs. St. David when Windstruther and Haldale got to wagering about the number of windows in the inn.
“Good day,” Elizabeth said, as Hugh St. David held her chair. “What a pretty village this is.”
“Wales shows to best advantage in summer,” Hugh St. David replied. “Some of the houses go back centuries, and the ale here won’t give anybody a bad turn. May I fetch you ladies your pints?”
“Please,” Delphine replied. “And some bread and butter. I vow this morning’s exertions have given me an appetite.”
Hugh positively strutted to the bar, and his wife followed his progress with an appreciative eye.
Well. “I have a few questions for you,” Elizabeth said, “if you’ve time to indulge me.”
“Ask,” Delphine replied. “I know more about fossils than probably anybody here save my husband, but other than that, I’m not particularly knowledgeable.”
“Why are the shopkeepers and merchants, to a man, overcharging the castle for everything from ale to lime to carpet tacks?”
* * *
“Why do you hate Haverford?” Charlotte asked, for she intended to do more than simply keep an eye on Mr. Sherbourne.
She wanted to take him apart as she’d once taken apart her papa’s watch. All those springs and screws and tiny parts were more fascinating than the clock’s face. Two hands traversed the same twelve numbers over and over, while the genius of timekeeping remained tucked out of sight.
“I don’t hate Haverford,” Sherbourne said, tipping his hat to Aunt and Mr. Andover as they ambled in the opposite direction around the green. “I hate injustice.”
If he’d passed Charlotte a box of French chocolates, she could not have been more pleased. “So do I, but in what sense is Haverford an injustice?”
Charlotte had envied Hugh and Delphine St. David not their relapse into marital affection, but their morning hike. The walk to the village, by contrast, had been undertaken at the pace of a drunken tortoise burdened with an uncertain sense of direction.
“Haverford is a duke. At the risk of offending present company, a duke is a strutting, braying injustice.”
The green was only a couple of acres of ground, just big enough to hold a village market.
“Let’s wander along the river,” Charlotte said, “because I’m sure your views on this subject are as well developed as my distaste for purchasing hair ribbons.”
“You don’t enjoy shopping, Miss Charlotte?”
Charlotte steered him to the path between the livery and the apothecary. “Can’t abide it.”
“I have never met a woman who doesn’t enjoy spending coin.”
The path wound down to the river, the same body of water that ran through Haverford’s park, though it ran more slowly here.
“You’ve never met a woman who didn’t profess to love shopping,” Charlotte said, “who didn’t manufacture a display of enthusiasm for it, and you took that for an honest expression of joy. You are preoccupied with coin, so any woman trying to curry your favor knows to display an affection for what coin can purchase.”
“Miss Charlotte, you are a terror.”
“And you are walking by a river. Patronize me at peril to your tailoring.” Sherbourne was good-sized. She might not be able to push him into the water, now that she’d given up the element of surprise. “Please explain your enmity toward dukes.”
“Not only dukes, the whole peerage. The lot of them sit on their rosy fundaments, running the country while they do nothing to contribute to its well-being. The sovereign is a bad and very expensive joke, while the likes of Haverford can hold back progress on a whim, or pass toothless laws which they themselves then ignore.”
The water meandered by, dark but not stagnant. A soft breeze stirred the trees along the bank, and wood warblers chirped and whistled overhead. Wales was beautiful.
And Sherbourne was an angry man.
Charlotte was angry too, much of the time. “Has Haverford held back your progress?”
Sherbourne walked along, the picture of a gentleman at leisure taking the country air.
“He refuses to allow even a single mine into the district. His father and grandfather took the same position. No mines, not when this valley can grow crops, and dot its hillsides with a lot of bawling heifers and stupid sheep. My grandfather hired a surveyor to dig some exploratory shafts and we do have ore here, Miss Charlotte. We have a wealth of ore.”
His frustration was apparently every bit as precious to him as an inherited title would be to a ducal heir.
“You don’t care for milk, cheese, butter, beef, mutton, lamb, or wool?”
“You are the most contrary woman I have ever met.”
“Thank you. Answer the question.”
“Of course, I see the value in those goods, but compared to coal, they are barely profitable. Haverford’s beautiful vistas and plump bovines are a sentimental attachment the rest of us cannot afford. As a peer, he will never be jailed for debt, so his lack of funds is a mere inconvenience. For everybody else, our very freedom depends on having adequate coin.”
“One cannot eat coal, Mr. Sherbourne. One cannot wear coal. As somebody who adores butter on my toast, I’m glad Haverford isn’t as greedy as some.”
Charlotte ought not to have said that. A lady could make a point without being insulting, but really, Sherbourne hadn’t thought his position through.
“I’m greedy for wanting to bring progress to this valley? For wanting our young men to have a choice besides tramping into London and hoping they’ll see their families again before they die of overwork and homesickness?”
“You’re probably not greedy, but you cannot abide that Haverford, supported by all of his tenants and titled neighbors, can stop your mining scheme. You simply want to have your way in all things.”
He stopped, both hands resting on his walking stick. “You make me sound like a spoiled duke.”
Charlotte knelt to look for a stone—smooth, round, not too big. “You think Haverford’s title is why he can thwart your coal mine, but his title has little to do with it. He owns thousands of acres. You could own thousands of acres if you pleased to. His family goes back centuries in this shire. Someday, your family might too if it doesn’t already. He’s respected and trusted, however, and that, very likely, is why he can keep the mines out of the valley.”
She skipped the rock, making four bounces before it hit the opposite bank.
“He’s respected and trusted because he’s a duke.”
“He’s respected because he is a gentleman in every sense of the word. You are almost as stubborn as my uncle Percival on the subject of the Irish question. He claims it will split the government before we just damned deal with it.”
“Please do not use foul language, Miss Charlotte.”
She picked up another rock. “I’m merely quoting my uncle.” She took better aim, so the trajectory would fall more nearly up the middle of the river, and got five bounces this time.
“I’ve always wished I knew how to do that.”
“Five male cousins,” Charlotte said. “I watched them and watched them—spied on them endlessly—then practiced in private. It’s not difficult. Shall I show you how?”
He studied the spot where her rock had dropped below the surface. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“You’ll think about what I said? About Haverford’s title not being the issue?”
Sherbourne removed his gloves and set aside his walking stick. “I will, if you’ll give some thought to the notion that progress ought to benefit more than the titled few. I’ll also ponder at some length how you look whipping that rock exactly where you want it to go.”
Charlotte peeled off her gloves and stuffed them in a pocket. “Was that a compliment?”
“More of a complaint.”
She thought about that reply as she explained the qualities of a good skipping rock. Sherbourne’s first three attempts merely splashed into the river, but by the fourth try, he got a couple of bounces.
By the time Mr. Sherbourne had achieved four bounces, Charlotte had concluded that for her to haunt his thoughts was acceptable. He needed something to dwell on besides the perceived injustice of being a wealthy, handsome, shrewd commoner who lived next door to a principled nobleman.
“One more,” he said, tossing a small rock between his hands. “Then I must return you to the company of my betters.”
He focused on the river, much as Charlotte focused when she nocked an arrow. Everything—breathing, gaze, thoughts—came together in support of a single objective. He let the stone go with a hard flick of his wrist, and it bounced six times before striking an exposed rock many yards upstream.
“That was excellent,” Charlotte said. “Very well done, Mr. Sherbourne. You are educable after all.”
His blue eyes filled with consternation, and Charlotte feared she’d insulted him again. That would not do. She leaned close and bussed his cheek.
“I’m proud of you, sir, and you’ve spared me a morning of tedium at the mercer’s and the baker’s.”
His smile was unexpectedly bashful. “I’m in your debt as well, Miss Charlotte. For the lively conversation and the instruction.”
He tugged his gloves on, offered his arm, and with every appearance of gentlemanly consideration, escorted her back to the green.
* * *
“Moreland, you can’t call a man out for asking to court our niece.”
Percival regarded his duchess, whose tones in the past ten minutes had progressed from amused, to patiently firm, to mule-stubborn.
“The damned man doesn’t even bother with diplomacy, Esther. He intimates that he’d give a lot of dusty books for the privilege of asking for Elizabeth’s hand, then bluntly informs me he has no coin.”
Percival tossed Haverford’s message—it didn’t qualify as a letter—onto the blotter.
The duchess stalked across the private ducal sitting room, and after more than three decades of marriage, Percival could read her mood in the very swish of her skirts.
“Tony and Gladys are desperate to see Bethan married,” Esther said. “Tony himself suggested Charlotte and Elizabeth attend this house party, and need I remind you, sir, that Bethan would be Haverford’s duchess.”
Esther had doubtless spotted a mention of Haverford’s gathering in some tattler, and had passed along the information to Gladys. Tony had probably been consulted as a courtesy, nothing more. Tony, alas, was off with Gladys in Brighton while his daughters hunted bachelors in Wales.
“As if Bethan cares that”—Percival snapped his fingers—“for being a duchess.”
Esther picked up the note, though she probably had it memorized. “Elizabeth would make a fine duchess, which I admit in all humility is not an easy task. One must learn to manage to a duke, and that can be a delicate undertaking. What does it mean, that Haverford’s circumstances are sorely constrained?”
“He hasn’t a farthing to his name, though his castle is not yet mortgaged. I suspect the bankers won’t lend to him anymore, because they know the extent of his debts.”
“I’ve seen Haverford Castle,” Esther said, taking the note over to the window. “Lovely grounds, magnificent edifice with an enormous library. His handwriting puts me in mind of yours.”
The sunlight found fiery highlights in Her Grace’s blond hair. Percival pretended to peer over his wife’s shoulder, but mostly, he wanted to be closer to her. They were having a difference of opinion—behind a firmly closed door, of course—and he must tread carefully.
“Magnificent edifices are expensive to maintain, Esther, as are beautiful grounds. You will notice, nobody is building castles these days, despite an abundance of fine British stone in nearly every shire.”
“Castles are drafty.” Her Grace patted her husband’s cravat. “I say you should give Haverford a chance.”
The duchess knew exactly when to turn up reasonable and charming, and Percival would capitulate to her wishes. For the sake of his pride—and her amusement—he’d put up a show of resistance first.
“Do you want Gladys and Tony’s grandchildren living without comforts, madam? Without the coin to make a proper come out? Without dowries or means?”
The duchess returned the letter to the blotter and settled on the sofa. “Percival, when I married you, you’d sold your commission, your family finances were a disgrace, the ducal heir was ailing, and your parents’ marriage was nothing short of a domestic feud.”
Not even a polite domestic feud. Percival’s own marriage had been guided in part by a desire to avoid emulating his parents’ bad example.
He took the place beside his wife. “I wasn’t much of a catch, was I?”
“I was assured that marrying a duke’s son was very presuming of me, but viewed pragmatically, you were a bad risk.”
“A lusty bad risk.” The babies had arrived one right after another, Peter’s health had deteriorated, and the old duke’s muddled finances had become a quagmire of debt and mismanagement.
Esther linked her fingers with Percival’s. “But we contrived, Moreland. We endured, we did not give up. A few challenging years weren’t the worst that could befall our marriage.”
Losing Victor and Bart was the worst that had befallen their marriage. Esther didn’t have to say that out loud.
“Bethan and her duke might have hard decades, Esther, not simply hard years. Once a man has no capital to invest, his financial progress can barely plod toward better health. Haverford has a long road before him, and his politics incline liberally on too many issues for my liking. The only other characteristic the St. Davids are known for is having a blessed lot of old books.”
“What asset could Haverford possibly have—besides honor—that Elizabeth would value more than books?”
“A loving heart, of course.”
Esther kissed his cheek. “And that is why I married you. For your loving heart.”
“I know what you’re about, madam. You hope that if Elizabeth brings Haverford up to scratch, then Charlotte will capitulate to the charms of some swain or other. I think you have it backward.”
Percival did not have a favorite niece or a favorite daughter—or maybe they were all his favorites—but he had a greater instinctive understanding of Charlotte than of her sisters.
Charlotte was ferociously loyal, could not abide unfairness, and would sacrifice herself for her sisters without a murmur of regret.
“Charlotte will have to marry, once Elizabeth has spoken her vows,” Esther said. “Her sisters will see to it. Megan and Anwen will matchmake more effectively than we ever could, and enlist the aid of our own offspring.”
“Charlotte is immune to matchmaking. She’ll choose for herself or not at all.”
Esther sat up. “Percival, was that a challenge? You claim I cannot find a suitable fellow for my own niece?”
Nobody had found such a fellow yet, and not for want of trying. Percival kept that purely factual observation to himself.
“Might we focus on one spinster niece at a time, my love? Haverford implies that Elizabeth is unconcerned about his financial situation, but I’ll not have him marrying her in hopes that her settlements will ease his burdens.”
“Why not?”
“For his sake. A man has his pride, or he should have his pride if he’s marrying a Windham.”
“Valid point. So what will you do?”
What did a competent officer do when the territory was unpromising, but had to be crossed? “I’ll conduct more reconnaissance, and bring Tony into the conversation.”
“I wrote to Gladys this morning. You can tuck a note in with my letter.”
“Esther, please. This is a serious matter. You can tuck your letter in with my ducal missive.”
She cuddled closer. “You’re right, of course. My mistake.”
Ever gracious in victory, that was Her Grace, but Percival wasn’t about to turn a blind eye to Haverford’s lack of fortune. Polite society wouldn’t either, and sooner or later, Elizabeth would hear it whispered that she’d all but bought her tiara.
Which wouldn’t do. For a Windham bride, that wouldn’t do at all.