“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?”