Chapter 13
Isla had agreed to ride with him, but only because it meant the opportunity to ride.
That was what she told herself, at least. She sat side-saddle because they were to visit Edward’s tenants and she did not wish to shock them.
Wexford’s tenants might faint if their duchess turned up in breeches. The habit chafed.
The skirt dragged. Her knee felt wrong where it pressed against the pommel instead of the horse’s side. Still, the air was sweet and open, and the fields rolled out in gentle, green ribs. Beside her, Edward rode astride with the ease of a man who had spent half his life balancing on moving things.
“We will start with the north farms,” he said, reins held in one hand, posture straight. “Dalton, Partridge, then old Mr. Hewson on the rise. After that, the sheep pastures and the dairy.”
“You have them all mapped in your head,” she said. “I’m impressed.”
“A captain who cannot recall his own deck is unfit for command,” he replied.
“This is not a deck,” she pointed out, waving at the hedgerows, the crofts, the distant hanging blue of the woods.
“It behaves like one,” he said. “Everyone aboard expects the man at the helm to know where every rope is tied.”
“Except that people have feelings, not ropes,” Isla murmured.
He did not answer, which was answer enough.
He talks to me of business easily enough. Words like ledger, rent and statement of account come easily to his lips.
They cantered along the lane between high hedges, then slowed where the track branched toward a low farmhouse with a crooked chimney. Children’s voices cut the quiet, hens scattered indignantly as they approached.
Mr. Dalton met them at the gate cap in hand, shoulders stooped from years of bending over stubborn soil. His boots were cracked and his jacket had seen better decades but his eyes were as bright and wary as a boy’s.
“Your Grace.” He bowed first to Edward, then remembered and dipped to Isla. “Your Graces.”
“Dalton,” Edward said. “How is the barley?”
“Coming in well enough, Your Grace. We had a late frost, but the Lord sent sun after.”
“And drainage? Latham mentioned difficulty near the lower field.”
“Aye. There’s a wet patch as never dries and swallows a boot besides.”
“You were to dig a run-off trench,” Edward said. “Has it been done?”
Dalton shifted his weight. “We’ve begun, sir. But the tools …”
“You have three able-bodied sons,” Edward cut in. “Borrow a spade if yours are dull. The work must be completed before the next rain.”
Dalton’s mouth flattened. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Isla watched the exchange from her saddle, feeling the air chill by a degree. Edward’s tone was clipped, the sort he might have used on a slow sailor. All accurate. All efficient. And entirely lacking in empathy.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Dalton,” she said, brightening her voice. “Your daughter has the prettiest hair I have ever seen.”
Dalton blinked. “Meg?”
“Yes. I saw her plait when we rode up. That color would bankrupt the London hairdressers if they knew it existed.” She leaned down a little. “Is she the one who sews the shirts? The stitches on your collar are very neat.”
“Aye, that she is, Your Grace.” Pride crept into his tone despite himself. “Quick with a needle, that one. My wife says she’ll have her hands ruined by cloth before any man thinks to hold them.”
“Then the man will not deserve them,” Isla said. “Does she fancy working with finer cloth? I am in need of a clever seamstress to mend a rip I made in an old habit, and Mrs. Hargrave tells me she has no time to spare.”
Dalton actually smiled. “Meg would die of delight, Your Grace.”
“You will not let her die,” Isla said, mock-stern. “You will let her live and sew and perhaps one day move to Wexford Hall to terrorize the hems there.” She glanced at Edward. “If His Grace does not object.”
Edward seemed to realize belatedly that he had become an ornament in his own conversation. “We pay fair wages,” he said. “If she works hard, she will be valued.”
Dalton’s shoulders relaxed a fraction. “Thank you, Your Graces.”
They rode on.
“Was that necessary?” Edward asked once they were out of earshot.
“She was going to die, apparently, so yes,” Isla said. “Besides, you were about to demand a trench of a man whose boots have holes. Let his daughter patch them with your money.”
He exhaled, half-sigh, half-laugh. “You go around my orders.”
“I go around the edges,” she said. “You give him the trench, I give him a reason not to curse your name while he digs it. Call it complementary labor.”
He considered that. “I am not accustomed to sharing command.”
“Then think of me as your second,” she said. “I will not steer the ship. I will shout at the crew in a different language while you do.”
The idea seemed to sit not unpleasantly in his mind. “We will see if the crew appreciates it.”
They went from farm to farm. At Partridge’s, Edward boxed the man’s ears with questions about missing sheep, while Isla asked after his wife’s rheumatism and recommended a broth her maid at Strathmore, Moira swore by.
At Hewson’s, Edward inspected the state of the outbuildings while Isla sat on a low wall and let Hewson’s grandchildren show her their pet lamb with a ribbon round its neck.
“You cannot keep him in the house forever, you know,” she told them. “He will grow, and then he will knock over your chairs and try to eat the curtains.”
“He can eat Pa’s coat,” one boy said darkly. “Pa snores.”
“I shall say nothing,” Isla murmured.
She caught Edward watching her once, a strange look on his face. It was half perplexity, half something softer. She could not interpret it and didn’t try. Instead she rode on, asking names, making faces at toddlers, ignoring the murmurs that followed them like a wake.
By the time the sun had travelled past its highest point, they had covered most of the northern tenants and turned toward the village of Wexham. Isla’s thighs ached from the unnatural angle of side-saddle. She shifted slightly, earning a warning squeak from the horse’s leather.
“Do you regret coming?” Edward asked.
“Och, aye,” she said. “All this fresh air and conversation. I’ll be wanting three days of London ballrooms tae recover.”
He almost smiled. They crested a low hill and Wexham unfolded below.
Stone cottages huddled with smoking chimneys.
A church spire rose from the jumble of roofs.
Somewhere, a swinging sign made a creaking noise.
A dog barked at their horses as they neared and was silenced by an angry shout from a window.
This world smelled strongly of peat and baking bread.
They walked their horses down into the lane. Heads turned. Hats were removed. People bobbed. Isla did her duchess best and inclined her head without appearing to look down upon anyone.
“Your Graces!” The call came from the front of the inn, a sturdy building with freshly lime-washed walls and a signboard showing a rather smug-looking lion. The innkeeper himself stood in the doorway, wiping his hands on a cloth. “If I might have a word?”
Edward reined in. “What is it, Mr. Blake?”
“News from town,” Blake said, holding up a folded newspaper. His expression was uneasy. “I thought … seeing as how … your good lady is from north of the border” He glanced at Isla and shut his mouth on the rest.
Isla’s stomach tightened. “What news?” she asked.
Blake looked at Edward.
“It concerns Her Grace’s family seat,” he said carefully.
“Give it to me,” Isla said.
He hesitated only a heartbeat before coming forward. The paper was a London one, damp along the edges from its journey. Blake’s thumb marked a column. Isla unfolded it with fingers that were suddenly clumsy.
Her eye snatched at words.
Devastating Fire in Perthshire
Ancient Seat of the Dukes of Strathmore Gutted by Flames
Damage Extensive—Cause Unknown
Her vision narrowed. The rest of the paragraph arranged itself with cruel clarity. A blaze believed to have started in the east wing. Servants fleeing and the great hall collapsing. There was no mention yet of; casualties. But what was reported was enough to make her heart slam against her ribs.
Those poor people. Everyone who works for us. It was their home too.
The world tilted. She heard her own breath as if from a distance.
“Isla.” Edward’s voice came from somewhere beside her, low and steady. “Let me see.”
She handed him the paper without complaint. Her hands had begun to tremble.
“Strathmore is …” She swallowed, trying to shape the word. “Destroyed?”
“Not entirely.” He read quickly, lips tightening. “The structure stands. Parts of it. The damage is severe.” He glanced at her. “It does not name your brother among the casualties.”
Isla blinked. She felt as though her head was stuffed with wool.
“Does it mention him at all?” she asked.
“No … wait! The Duke was not in residence. He had taken his leave for London,” Edward said.
Isla’s knees trembled at the thought of losing Alistair as well as her home. Her throat closed. For all Alistair’s faults, for all the quarrels, the thought of him trapped in smoke and fire was unbearable.
“No names at all,” she said, reaching to jab a shaking finger at the print. “No mention of who was there or whether … whether …”
She realized belatedly that Edward had moved closer. His hand touched her elbow, not possessive, simply there. Solid.
“We will get more information,” he said. “This is yesterday’s edition. There will be follow-up. I will send a messenger to the post office at once.”
“Why did he not write?” she whispered. “Why say nothing? I am his sister.”
“News like this travels slower by private letter than by gossip.” His hand tightened briefly. “We have only just seen it. You must give him time you have not yet granted yourself.”