“This soup is delicious. Has your mine fallen into difficulties already?”
“You know about the mudslide.” The beef and vegetable soup was comforting and so, in an odd way, was this discussion with Radnor. He was no fool, despite having Haverford for a best friend.
“I know of no mudslide,” Radnor said, around a mouthful of buttered bread. “Haverford has heard nothing about a mudslide, and I have it on good authority none of our laborers or masons will mention a mudslide in Lord Brantford’s hearing.”
Hannibal Jones had been instructed at length on the same topic. “My thanks. You haven’t told me why you’ve graced me with your presence, Radnor.”
His lordship rose and brought Sherbourne his drink. “My marchioness thought I needed to get out and socialize.”
“You were driving the poor woman addle-pated.” Sherbourne had likely driven Charlotte addle-pated. “Does your wife correspond with any old friends of the male gender?”
Radnor dipped his bread in his soup, the same as any yeoman might have. “I should say not. She might tuck a note in with my own correspondence, add a few lines to a letter of mine, that sort of thing. Why?”
“No reason. What can you tell me about the Caerdenwal woman’s situation?”
“The who—? Oh, her. Poor creature went into service in Cardiff or Swansea, I forget which. She got with child and that was that. As Griffin so baldly put it, she has a baby but no husband. Is that burgundy in this soup? I do fancy it.”
How had Charlotte become aware of a fallen woman among Griffin’s tenants, and why would she make a neighborly gesture in that direction before she’d even called on the vicar?
“The recipe is French,” Sherbourne said. “Mrs. Sherbourne brought many recipes with her, and the kitchen has been in constant readiness for a visit from Lord Brantford.”
“Does he know about your situation at the bank?”
“I only found out the day following our little dinner party. The post brought all manner of disappointing news.” Would Mr. Porter write back to Charlotte, and would Sherbourne intercept that letter if he did? When had Charlotte crossed the path of Mrs. Wesley Smythe of East Anglia or Mrs. Wesley Scott in Liverpool?
“Brantford won’t hear about your bank from me,” Radnor said. “Nobody will.”
“My thanks.”
“I doubt you’ll thank me for what I’m about to tell you now.”
“Another mudslide?” Whatever it was, Radnor had done a good job of keeping his own counsel, while Sherbourne had prattled on about soup recipes and steam.
“Haverford and I are agreed that Hannibal Jones was negligent in his design of your retaining wall.”
Charlotte felt the same. “And?”
“And I did a bit of corresponding with friends, and I think you have a problem on your hands.”
The soup was no longer hot enough. Sherbourne set his bowl aside and tore a slice of bread in half. “Truly, your insightfulness astounds me, Radnor. I do, indeed, have problems on my hands.” Problems he’d like to discuss with Charlotte, if she ever came home.
“Hannibal Jones is a very competent engineer.”
“Considering what I’m paying him, he should be a damned genius, but he apparently forgot that water weighs sixty-two pounds per cubic foot.” An inch of rain falling on a square foot of land weighed slightly more than five pounds, another fact Charlotte had passed along.
“He drinks,” Radnor said gently, “possibly to excess. The last mine he worked for suffered a tunnel collapse due to flooding. If the collapse had happened any day but the Sabbath, dozens of men, women, and children would have been trapped below the surface. The mine owners kept it quiet, because they didn’t want their misfortunes to become public.”
“Tunnels collapse,” Sherbourne said, though the very words left him queasy. “Mining is a hazardous undertaking.”
“The miners warned him that water was leaching into the tunnel, warned him that his trusses were too far apart. He ignored them, and after the accident, his drinking grew appreciably worse. If his drinking is still a problem, you will have to replace him as soon as Brantford is done strutting about. I say that not only as a member of your board of directors, but as one who wants your venture to succeed.”
The queasiness in Sherbourne’s belly became a burning that pushed up into his chest. Charlotte had offered to check Jones’s calculations, and Sherbourne had smiled and done nothing to provide her the figures.
“Have you any more cheering news to report?” Sherbourne asked.
“Glenys assures me we’re to have rain tomorrow. Her left knee aches, and she claims that’s a reliable predictor of bad weather.”
“Then Brantford will see the colliery in all its rainy splendor, and once I’ve subjected my household to his dubious company at dinner, we’ll hope the grouse moors lure him away.”
Radnor was soon back in the saddle, leaving his best wishes for Mrs. Sherbourne and a promise that he’d join the inspection tomorrow afternoon. Sherbourne watched him ride off, not sure if the call had been friendly, for all it was appreciated.
Charlotte’s dog cart came up the drive even as Radnor turned his horse onto the lane, and Sherbourne waited in the chilly wind until he could assist his wife to alight from her vehicle. Morgan appeared from the stables to lead the horse away, and Sherbourne abandoned all decorum to kiss his wife’s rosy cheek.
“Mr. Sherbourne, good day. The vicarage sends greetings. I hope you and Lord Radnor had a pleasant chat?”
“His lordship spread a pall of gloom thicker than the foul miasmas wafting off the Thames in July.”
Charlotte took Sherbourne by the arm. “This sounds serious, even for you. You must tell me all about it, and I shall explain how thrilled Vicar was that you have agreed to repair the church steeple.”
Sherbourne stopped halfway up the front steps. “Charlotte, I cannot spare a single mason to repair a steeple that hasn’t gone anywhere for nearly three hundred years.”
She peered up at him, nothing but concern in her eyes despite how sharply he’d spoken. “I was standing in the churchyard, visiting with Miss MacPherson, and a stone fell and nearly struck me on the head. I thought it was a sign from on high that I’d found the most public, charitable project for you to undertake. I’m sorry.”
Many more such signs from on high, and Sherbourne would be the one drinking to excess. He made it as far as the foyer and even got the door closed before drawing Charlotte into his arms.
“I’ll see to the steeple repairs, I promise, just as soon as Lord Brantford has pranced off on his merry way. He’s coming to dinner tomorrow night and will tour the works in the afternoon.”
Charlotte stepped back to untie her bonnet ribbons. “Shall I join this tour of the works? He will behave himself if I am on hand.”
Sherbourne undid the frogs of her cloak. “You mean, I’ll behave myself. I’d rather let him do his worst, then get rid of him once for all.”
“What is the worst he could do?”
Ruin me. “Withdraw his funds because I’ve misrepresented the state of the project, in which case I’ll find another investor.” A near impossibility if Brantford spoke ill of what he’d seen.
Charlotte kissed Sherbourne’s cheek, treating him to a soothing hint of gardenia. “As long as his lordship can do nothing serious, we shall contrive.” The same phrase she’d used when nearly in a swoon from her fear of heights.
“Shall we contrive with a shared midday nap, Mrs. Sherbourne?” The suggestion arrived to Sherbourne’s mouth without having given any notice to his brain. He had much to do, not enough time to do it, and canoodling with his wife wouldn’t help one bit.
Though it wouldn’t hurt, either.
“Tomorrow,” Charlotte said, going up on her toes to whisper in his ear. “I am yet plagued by my inconvenience, but tomorrow I will be better able to share naps with you.”