“I should like to learn more about my responsibilities as earl,” Jack said to the duke and duchess at dinner that evening. This was part of preparing to be married to Harriet, and anything to do with that happy event cheered him. “People speak of ‘managing the estate.’ What does that entail precisely?”
The duke gestured at his wife. “Cecelia is the expert in that regard. You could do no better than consult her.”
He’d said such things before, and Jack was always surprised at the ease with which he admitted it. Few men of his acquaintance would have done so.
“There are times when I think she loves dusty old records and documents more than she loves me,” Tereford added.
“And I wonder if you married me in order to have your work done for you,” replied the duchess.
They laughed at each other. Clearly this was an old joke between them. Jack realized living beside the Terefords had given him hope for his future. Though they were of the highest rank, they had never been stuffy or disapproving. He’d watched for signs. Time had passed, and he’d seen none. They’d convinced him his great-grandmother was wrong. He could be accepted by English society as he was. Lady Wilton’s harsh tutoring was not required. “I’m ready for a new job,” he declared. “I can’t bear idleness.”
The duchess nodded as if she approved.
Jack was glad of that. He’d been the target of several speculative glances from the duchess since she’d caught him kissing Harriet. Again. He might have preferred receiving more easygoing instruction from the duke. And yet he wanted to really learn and pitch in.
“Why don’t we meet in the estate office in the morning?” she said.
“Is there one?” Jack asked.
“Yes. Haven’t you looked over all the rooms of your new home?”
He had not. In fact, he hadn’t really thought of Ferrington Hall as home. But now he must, because it would be Harriet’s. He wanted to make it fine for her. And her mother also. Having talked a bit with Mrs. Finch, he was glad to offer her a refuge. “I should do that, I expect,” he replied.
“Mrs. Riley would be happy to show you,” said the duchess. “She’s worked here since she was fourteen, you know.”
Once again, he hadn’t. “So long?”
“She came as a kitchen maid and worked her way up.”
“And has she been happy here?” Jack asked. He still didn’t entirely understand such long-standing relationships.
“I would say so. She is proud of her accomplishments.”
“That’s good.” For some reason, Jack was reminded of the laborer he’d questioned in the field near Winstead Hall. That fellow had said the earl looked after people, lent a helping hand. And what else? Settled disputes, that was it. How was that done? He was no judge. Jack had a sudden sense of a great many people spread out over the lands around him ready to rely on his perspicacity. He didn’t mind responsibility, but that seemed a bit daunting.
After breakfast the next day, the duchess led him down a corridor near the kitchen. She opened the door and gestured him in. Jack entered a small room furnished with a desk and some chairs. Two walls of shelves held ledgers and document boxes. The place reminded him of the headquarters of his shipping business. This had a grander ceiling and fancier carving on the shelves, but the room gave him a sense of industry and purpose he appreciated. He felt comfortable suddenly, more so than anywhere else he’d been in Ferrington Hall.
The duchess started to sit at the desk. Then she stopped and gestured for him to take that seat. Jack did so. There were several stacks of papers set before it.
“I’ve looked over a few things,” she said with a smile and a shrug as she sat down across from him. “I couldn’t resist.”
As if documents were special treats created for her entertainment, Jack thought. It was amusing, really.
“Some of your tenants have pressing questions or requests,” she went on. She pointed to one of the piles. “And some farms lie vacant and should be let.”
“The estate is all rented out?”
“Nearly all. There is a home farm, which you can use for your own purposes.”
“Such as?”
“Agricultural experiments, specialized livestock breeding.”
Jack had no idea what these experiments would be. He decided to save that question. “And these rents are how an estate makes money?”
She nodded.
“So there’s really nothing for me to do?” He wanted a task that required his opinions and energies.
“Not at all. The landowner is responsible for upkeep and improvements. You must decide how much of the income is to be turned back into buildings and tools. A threshing machine, for example, that can be shared by all the tenants in turn.”
Her face glowed with enthusiasm. Jack couldn’t quite visualize a threshing machine. “And the remainder is the profit,” he observed.
“Yes. Your income. But it is well worth investing some part of the rents in the land. Over the long run.”
Jack nodded. “It seems I must learn a whole new business.”
“Some landowners leave oversight to stewards and agents,” the duchess replied. “That can work well if you find good men.” She made a wry face. “Always men, of course.”
“I suspect you are a rare creature.”
She smiled. “There are other women who are just as knowledgeable, though they get little chance to show it. A good landowner is a caretaker, and women are often good at service.”
“Service?” repeated Jack.
“Well, that is how I see it. Tending the land and the people it supports, as well as the future.”
He raised his eyebrows, inviting her to go on. He was finding her perspective on this subject fascinating.
“You are, I believe, the ninth Earl of Ferrington.”
“Seemingly,” he replied.
“So your people have been here for centuries.” The duchess gestured at the ceiling. “The beams in a house like this last that long. But eventually, some will need to be replaced. And so you plant oak trees to be ready when that time comes.”
Jack was speechless at the thought of such a span.
“And there’s something else. What do you do with the money you make with your shipping business?”
“I live on it,” he replied.
“And the surplus? Perhaps you make charitable donations?”
“Not as many as I might have,” he admitted.
The duchess nodded as if she understood. “It is another thing to think of. I know Harriet is interested in several charitable causes.”
“Is she?” That was interesting information.
“She will be bringing a goodly sum to the estate. I’m sure she’d like to have some say in how it is used.”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t she?”
This earned Jack his first look of total approval from the formidable Duchess of Tereford.
***
“Did your instructional session go well?” the duke asked his wife later that day as they strolled arm in arm through the unkempt gardens of Ferrington Hall.
“Yes,” was the absent reply.
“Ferrington was willing to listen to you?”
“Quite. He is an apt pupil.”
“Then why aren’t you smug with success?” he inquired.
“I beg your pardon?”
He smiled down at her. “Now I have your full attention.”
“And you are smug with success.”
“Completely.”
The duchess shook her head but returned the smile.
“Something is nagging at you,” observed her husband. “I don’t think I can be the cause, because I have been excessively accommodating.”
“Excessively?”
“I have given a near stranger my clothes, along with the services of my valet. Which Ferrington does not value as he should, by the by. I have not complained…”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Well, not nearly as much as I might have. It is rather dull here, Cecelia. Aside from your company, of course. But you do go off on mysterious errands.”
“Poor James.” She pressed his arm. “I’m puzzled about Harriet Finch. There’s something odd about her lately.”
“So you have said before. She is a bit unusual compared with other debs, but surely…”
“She is behaving oddly, I mean. Haven’t you noticed?” When the duke made no reply, she looked up at him. “You would if you tried. You are an acute observer.”
He put his free hand to his heart. “My dear, I am overwhelmed.”
“Tease all you like, James.”
“Thank you, I will.”
The duchess laughed. “As long as you help me discover what’s going on.”
“Is this one of those unspoken requirements of marriage? To become a coconspirator?”
“Yes,” answered the duchess with a bland expression. Her eyes danced, however.
“Then I must rally ’round, of course.”
“I will be very grateful.”
Their eyes held, and a familiar, delicious heat rose between them. They smiled wickedly.
“No, my lord!” cried an urgent voice behind them.
The Terefords turned to see the earl and the old caretaker Mr. Riley on the other side of the garden, beside a decrepit trellis. Ferrington had put a hand to the structure, and as they watched, it trembled and fell over, burying Riley in grapevines. The earl sprang forward and pulled him out, brushing bits of leaf from his smaller companion’s clothing.
“I need a way to bring them together,” said the duchess.
“I don’t see how they could be more so,” replied her husband, watching the earl and Riley contemplate the unsupported mound of vines.
“Ferrington and Harriet, I mean.”
“Oh. Not another ride, I think.”
“Harriet wouldn’t come. I know! That’s perfect.”
***
Thus it was that Harriet found herself carried off to Ferrington Hall the following day to look over the house and note any changes she would like to make as countess. She’d tried to resist the invitation, but Cecelia was not a duchess for nothing. She’d been unstoppable, countering all the objections Harriet could muster and enlisting her mother and grandfather in the scheme. Mama had thought it a lovely idea. She’d positively beamed. Grandfather seemed to view it as planting their flag on a rival’s bastion. He’d had to be discouraged from coming along and making suggestions of his own. Harriet feared he was even now reviewing the clutter of objects that crammed Winstead Hall and choosing the gaudiest, most ostentatious to send with her when she married the earl.
Harriet had been driven back and back until she ran out of excuses. And so now, she was walking through the rooms with the rogue earl at her side and Cecelia lurking behind them, more instigator than chaperone. There was to be a luncheon in the garden afterward, for which the duke would join them. Harriet had prayed, unsuccessfully, for rain.
“The Rileys say there have been no changes to the furnishings in forty years,” Ferrington told her as they passed through the drawing room, dining room, and two parlors on the lower floor. “Only in the wine cellar. My predecessor was…”
“A connoisseur?” suggested Harriet.
“I would have said a drunkard. But I am a blunt colonial.”
“Is that your new designation?”
“I prefer it to barbarian. Or rogue.” His smile brought back a rush of memories. They’d tossed that last word back and forth in so many different tones. At this point, it seemed like an endearment.
Conscious of Cecelia’s sharp ears, Harriet walked on.
“Apparently he stocked the cellar with hundreds of bottles,” Ferrington continued as they walked. “We shan’t drink it up until we’re old.”
“A great deal of drink is required for large house parties,” said Cecelia at their backs.
“Ah.” The earl looked at Harriet. “We’ll have as many of those as you like.”
“I’ve never been to any,” she replied. Her youth had not included such invitations.
“Neither have I.”
He was more like her than her close school friends, Harriet realized. Even with them, she’d sometimes felt like an outsider when they chattered about their connections in society. And the gentlemen she’d met during the season often had no other topic of conversation. Their talk was filled with unfamiliar names and shared occasions, along with the expectation she would know of them and be impressed. Ferrington was the only nobleman she’d encountered who never did this. Because, like her, he could not.
In the antiquated kitchen, Cecelia’s cook had many suggestions for improvement, all of them sensible. They agreed she would note them down for future reference and moved on to the upper floors.
“I’m told this room is known as the countess’s retreat,” Ferrington said, opening a door and gesturing for her to enter.
Harriet stepped into a beautifully proportioned chamber with long windows on two sides letting the light flood in. There was a tiled fireplace on the right with a design of curling vines. The hangings and furniture were faded and worn, as was the striped wallpaper. But a rug covering the center of the floor glowed with jewel colors. With a little freshening, this could be a charming place to sit.
She went to look outside. The windows overlooked the garden, which cried out for attention. Her grandfather’s gardener would be a good person to consult. He and his helpers had created a riot of flowers at Winstead Hall. It would be a pleasure to restore these grounds. A series of patterned beds would provide a lovely view from this vantage point. For someone. She turned away.
They looked into the bedchambers used by the earl and countess with their adjoining dressing rooms on the opposite sides. Neither looked occupied at present. They had the same faded quality as the countess’s parlor. Harriet wondered which room Ferrington was occupying now.
“I set up in a smaller chamber,” he said as if reading her thoughts. “I wasn’t ready for this sort of state when I arrived.”
It must have been odd to move from the Travelers’ camp to the hall, Harriet acknowledged.
“But I am now,” he added. He seemed to think she needed this reassurance. “Mrs. Riley tells me the linen is a disgrace,” he went on. “I don’t know exactly what that means. Does it go out cavorting with the tapestries in the drawing room during the hours of darkness?”
Harriet laughed. “It’s probably just threadbare.” The problem was not unfamiliar.
“How disappointing.”
“They can be mended.” She’d darned many torn bed linens.
“You should just replace them,” said Cecelia from the doorway.
Harriet nearly jumped. She’d almost forgotten her friend’s presence.
“Worn-out sheets are good for polishing furniture,” the duchess added.
She could do that, Harriet realized. She could replace outworn linens and hangings, even furniture. There would be no need for scrimping. She could create her own sort of household, about which she discovered she had definite ideas. She wanted an informal, comfortable, bountiful home such as she never had before. Later on, perhaps it would bustle with children. Her mother would be so happy in such a place. Tears thickened Harriet’s throat at the picture.
They examined the guest bedrooms, and Ferrington expressed some enthusiasm about installing newfangled bathing facilities. They saw the servants’ quarters required extensive refurbishing before returning to the ground floor. Cecelia slipped away to “see about luncheon,” blatantly leaving them alone in the drawing room.
“We shall do whatever you want with the house,” the rogue earl said then. “I’m sure you know exactly how things should be. You should buy anything you like.”
“As long as I cleared the expenditure with you, I suppose,” Harriet replied.
“No need for that.”
“But I would have to come to you for the money,” she pointed out. He must know her grandfather’s money—his payment for a title, in his mind—would go to her husband.
“That doesn’t seem right,” Ferrington answered. “We’ll put you in charge of the funds.”
He said it as if it was only sensible and not a revolution. Was this some American attitude? No, things weren’t so very different there. It was his unique outlook.
She could simply stay silent and marry him, Harriet thought. Would that be so very bad? Everything about this visit, about him, urged her in that direction. But she’d forced him to propose. He hadn’t even thought of it himself, seemingly. He’d stepped forward out of obligation. He’d never said he loved her. If she married him, wasn’t she being as greedy and pragmatic as her grandfather? Hadn’t she made a deal, just as the old man had ordered?
There were those searing kisses. But men kissed easily, she’d been told. Passion flamed and died, or so she’d heard. Chaperones and novels were full of warnings about that. As the latter were rife with stories of gentlemen manipulated into marriage and the disastrous consequences thereof. She’d railed at him about withholding his identity, called him a liar more than once. Wasn’t she as bad or worse? She must speak to him clearly and honestly. And if he then drew back… Tears threatened again, and she shied away from the thought.
***
Later that day, when luncheon was finished and Harriet gone, the duke and duchess took another stroll through the Ferrington Hall gardens. “What do you think?” she asked him.
“Ferrington is smitten,” the duke replied. “I have no doubt about that.”
She nodded.
“About your friend, I’m not so sure.”
“You don’t think she likes him? I thought she did, but…” The duchess bit her lower lip. “There is some constraint there.”
He nodded this time.
“I don’t understand it. I would have said they were perfectly suited.”
“You know her far better than I do,” he said. “But to me, she seemed just slightly…furtive. Perhaps guilty?”
“About what?”
“I have no idea. And as I said, you know her better.”
His wife frowned. “Could it be because I caught them kissing? Twice?”
“Is Miss Finch so straitlaced?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. Besides, they are engaged. A kiss is not a scandal now.” She shook her head, perplexed.
“Is this really your affair?” the duke asked gently.
She had to admit it might not be any of her business. “But I want Harriet to be happy,” she replied. “As happy as I am.”
“Is that possible?” he teased.
He got the smile he’d hoped for. “Do you imagine we are unique?” she asked.
“My imagination is fertile,” he suggested. He met her eyes and held them. “Shall we go in?”
A bit breathlessly, she agreed.