“Elizabeth warned me you are fierce.”
“Elizabeth was being polite, Your Grace. I am unrelenting when it comes to protecting those I care about. Mr. Sherbourne is at these works in all weather, up until all hours with his schedules and budgets. He and I have had no wedding journey because he could not leave the works unattended any longer, and now his dratted business partner must arrive like the bad fairy at the christening and make a challenging situation worse. If you intend anything less than the best of good faith and neighborly goodwill toward these works, say so now.”
Haverford’s expression had gone blank, but what had Charlotte expected? That a duke, doubtless among those named to succeed to the British throne, would scurry off like a chastened schoolboy?
“He’s here at all hours?” Haverford asked, hands behind his back.
“And then up for yet more hours in the library, poring over ledgers and correspondence. If you think Mr. Sherbourne an idle wastrel, you are much mistaken.”
“I never thought him idle. In fact, he’s a bit too industrious. He has his fingers in every pie from the coaching inn to mortgages on half the farms in this valley.”
This bothered Haverford, who doubtless had tenants on the other half.
“Do you want the mine to fail?” Charlotte asked.
“That would be ungentlemanly.”
“So you do want the mine to fail. Why?”
Haverford gestured again to the chair, and Charlotte realized that his gentlemanliness also prevented him from sitting when a lady stood, or paced, or tidied up stacks of paper that admitted of no order whatsoever.
She sat.
“I have placed my trust in Sherbourne,” Haverford said. “I hope he does not disappoint me. Others in this valley expect to find employment at this mine, but what I’ve seen so far is not encouraging. Then there’s this Lord Brantford getting involved when he has his own collieries to tend to in the north. I’ve also…well. Let’s leave it at that, shall we? I have reservations.”
Haverford had been poking about, in other words. Gathering intelligence on Charlotte’s spouse. “Then you owe it to Mr. Sherbourne to share those reservations. He has not undertaken this mine because he needs another distraction or is in want of coin. He’s opened the mine because without it, this valley will become another forgotten Welsh backwater remembered only in London pub songs.”
That was going too far. No corner of the realm that boasted a ducal family seat would ever be entirely forgotten.
“You’d have me attribute charitable impulses to Lucas Sherbourne?”
And that was going beyond too far. “Need I remind you, Your Grace, that my own sister’s determination to put a lending library in every Welsh coal town is funded by no less a person than Lucas Sherbourne?”
Charlotte pulled off her gloves, and stopped short of smacking them across the duke’s handsome cheeks. Sherbourne had been a very lenient creditor to the St. David family, which was probably why Haverford’s support of the mine was so grudging.
“You need not remind me of Elizabeth’s lending libraries ever. I have wondered if she married me simply to get her hands on my books.”
“Surely you jest, Haverford. She has more or less given your books away, while she seems quite attached to you.”
One corner of his mouth kicked up, and he crossed his boots at the ankle. “As I am attached to her. Elizabeth is very pleased to have you for a neighbor. I’ve suggested you might want some time to settle in before she becomes a regular fixture in your parlor.”
Charlotte did not know Haverford well, but this conversation was encouraging. He was just another healthy, busy, besotted man, and the Windham family boasted a surfeit of same.
“I will no sooner be settled in than dear Mama will arrive for the winter holidays, a month or two early. She loves Wales, and now she has two more reasons to spend time here.”
“Soon to be three,” Haverford said, looking smug.
Oh, yes, he was family. Title or no title, Julian St. David had become family.
The tent flap was thrown open to admit Lord Radnor and Sherbourne, with Hannibal Jones bringing up the rear.
“Mrs. Sherbourne, good day.” Sherbourne offered a bow, and Charlotte decided the moment wasn’t right to kiss his cheek. He looked delectably windblown and thoroughly annoyed.
With her?
“Ma’am.” Radnor bowed as well. “A pleasure to see you. My lady and I are looking forward to your hospitality tomorrow evening.”
“You are my rehearsal audience,” Charlotte said. “I appreciate your courage, and I’m sure your company will be lovely too. So where are we putting these houses?”
All four men exchanged glances.
“I say, put them where they were,” Mr. Jones replied. “The retaining wall won’t give way a second time if it’s properly reinforced, and putting the houses there saves us having to build any more dratted roads.”
“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.