“I beg your pardon?”
Mrs. Caerdenwal wedged through the door and closed it behind her, so she and Charlotte stood in the little yard, surrounded by hens clucking and pecking at the dirt.
“Himself sent money,” Mrs. Caerdenwal said, putting a bitter emphasis on the word money. “The baby’s father, that is. His note said running to our wealthy neighbor hadn’t been necessary, and a regular sum would come for the boy by post. It’s enough and then some. We’ll manage, if he keeps his word, and I suspect Mr. Sherbourne will see that he does.”
Relief seized Charlotte, despite the cold, despite her troubles. “Mr. Sherbourne had something to do with this?”
“The boy’s father referred to a wealthy neighbor, not a titled neighbor, and besides, His Grace isn’t that wealthy, not compared to many of his rank. We know that, but he’s our duke and he does right by us.”
“You don’t think Lord Radnor—?”
“Radnor is several miles distant and has never laid eyes on the child.”
The wind was bitter, and Mrs. Caerdenwal had only a shawl to protect her, and yet, Charlotte had more questions.
“Mr. Sherbourne has seen the baby?”
“Aye. He came here the one time, spoke with Maureen, and not two weeks later, Lord Griffin brings us a letter from the post with money. We’ll manage, Mrs. Sherbourne, and you have our thanks for everything.”
Charlotte took what she hoped was a polite leave and collected the gelding, who’d got loose from the fence post and stood cropping from a bush along the lane. Before she could climb into the gig, a figure turned off the road down the lane before the cottage.
He moved slowly, his great coat flapping, a scarf obscuring his features. An older man, Charlotte guessed from his gait and diminutive frame.
Hannibal Jones caught sight of Charlotte, paused, then resumed his progress.
Charlotte stepped into the gig, took up the reins, and got the vehicle turned on the verge.
Jones tipped his hat but said nothing. Charlotte nodded, though what on earth was he doing paying a call on this household, in this weather, when he had work to do at the colliery?
And how was she supposed to remain angry with Sherbourne, when he’d resolved the situation for the Caerdenwal family and never said a word about it to his own wife?
She steered the horse in the direction of the colliery, intent on taking advantage of Jones’s absence from the work site.
Also intent on confronting her husband.
*
The wind played tricks on Sherbourne’s hearing, so when wheels rattled outside the tent, he dismissed it as yet another auditory hallucination brought on by marital discord. A hundred times a day, he thought he heard Charlotte’s gig pulling up before the tent.
A hundred times an hour, he wished she’d bring him a parcel of sandwiches and a flask of hot tea.
And with an unrelenting ache, he wished he knew a way to meet her demand that Brantford be cast from their lives. His lordship had sent a note by post, inquiring as to when he could expect a revised repayment schedule from Sherbourne and remarking on the beautiful scenery in Monmouthshire.
Sherbourne had considered the budgets, the estimates, the available funds, and every way to rearrange them, but ousting Brantford could too easily create a cascade of nervous investors on other projects, as well as nervous creditors, and nervous employees.
“I was hoping I’d find you here,” Charlotte said.
She stood just inside the tent, looking windblown and chilled—also lovely, annoyed, and uncertain.
“Mrs. Sherbourne, come sit by the fire.”
She obliged, sitting in the least-battered chair. Sherbourne took the other seat and cast around for something to say that wasn’t too trite, too private, too honest, too—
Charlotte pulled off her gloves and held her hands above the little stove. “Hannibal Jones was paying a call on the Caerdenwal household when I left there not thirty minutes past.”
“I wasn’t aware he and the ladies were acquainted.”
“Neither was I, but I thought perhaps you’d sent him to keep an eye on them.”
Was that an accusation, a suggestion, or a mere question? “He passes that way when he travels to and from his lodgings in the village. I thought he was up on the hilltop securing the surveyor’s stakes in case we get snow.”
Charlotte untied her bonnet and set it amid the detritus on the nearest table. Loose papers and a pair of treatises were weighted down with an unlit lamp. A quill pen lay beside the lamp, along with a quizzing glass and a lump of hard, black coal.
“I want to thank you,” she said, casting Sherbourne an unreadable glance. “I mean that. I am happy to express my gratitude for what you did for those women and that tiny boy. That was decent of you, and I hadn’t thought to ask it of you.”
So absorbed was Sherbourne in assessing his wife’s mood, that making sense of her words took him a moment.
“I wrote a simple letter, gained permission from the ladies to send it, and that was that. I will cheerfully send another such letter if it becomes necessary.”
Charlotte snatched a sheaf of papers from the table and stared at them. “Haverford didn’t think to send that letter, and neither did the vicar or Lord Radnor. They’ve known of Maureen’s circumstances for months. Griffin kept a roof over their heads, but that doesn’t solve the real problem, does it?”
“For the boy, a roof over his head solves at least one problem. Have you eaten luncheon?”
She slipped the top paper behind the others. “I have not. I have a few pears and some cheese in the gig along with a flask of tea. The tea won’t be very hot.”
Pears and cheese with lukewarm tea sounded like a feast, provided Sherbourne could share his repast with Charlotte. She typically sat at her end of the dining table, a marital disaster masquerading as a portrait of fine manners.
Sherbourne found an orange rolling about in the back of the gig, along with the parcel Charlotte had described. A snow flurry danced down from above, and the horse—a fat, furry piebald cob named Nelson—blew out a white breath and cocked a hip.
“Thank you for the food,” Sherbourne said, passing Charlotte the orange. “If you’d peel that, I’ll find a knife and deal with the rest.”
Charlotte set aside the figures she’d been studying and rolled the orange between her palms. “I cannot decipher two consecutive lines of those calculations. Either Mr. Jones needs new spectacles, or he’s writing in a code known only to mining engineers. Griffin thinks we’re in for snow.”
That was more than Charlotte had said to Sherbourne at once for nearly three weeks.
“He and Biddy paid a call?”
Charlotte tore off a thick piece of orange rind. “He was out rambling, and accompanied me to the Caerdenwal cottage. I’m not welcome to return there.” She took a bite from the rind and chewed for a moment. “I’ll send along the occasional basket, though, and Griffin is prevailing on Radnor to provide a fall heifer.”
“Griffin is kind.” As I am not. Why hadn’t Sherbourne given his wife a kitten when the gesture would have been seen as something other than manipulation? “How are you, Charlotte?”
She munched another bite of orange rind, which made Sherbourne’s teeth ache. “I miss you. I suspect I would miss you regardless, because you work so much, but I miss you here.” She tapped her heart. “I hate that you must work so hard. I hate that much of your hard work will go to benefit a monster.”
Did she expect him to lounge about on his rosy arse all day? “I cannot abide idleness any more than you can, and my hard work will go mostly to benefit myself and those who depend on me.” But he missed her too—in his heart, in his arms, in his dreams. “I’ve been meaning to bring you Jones’s figures to review, but the moment hasn’t been right.”
Charlotte tore the orange in two and gave him half.