Chapter 18
James
James watched as Frances returned from yet another ride out to the farms.
“You said she went to the Sweetings again?” he asked Franklin, who was busy pressing his trousers.
“Yes. I heard that a meeting was held there. It seems Her Grace is encouraging the farmers to unite.”
“Unite?” He frowned. “What for?”
“To make their voices heard, I assume,” Franklin replied. “Her Grace has been working on this for a week, I believe.”
“I see.” James turned away from the window and sat in his armchair, one leg crossed over the other. “And what do you make of it?”
Franklin put the iron aside and folded the trousers. “I think it is a good idea, especially with Somerset Trust having its fingers in your business. I hear that they are electing someone to speak for them.”
“Is that so? And who do you think it’s going to be?”
Franklin shrugged. “I am uncertain, but I have heard the name Ernest Sweeting mentioned.”
“The one who’s always in his cups and drunk as a wheelbarrow every Friday night? Regularly cup-shot, that one.” James let out a laugh. “I do not know that that is the best choice.”
“He is a very clever man when he is not under the influence of spirits,” Franklin said. “I think he is a good choice. He is the one who spearheaded the recovery efforts after the flood last year. Showed real bottom when it mattered.”
James nodded.
Last year, they had suffered from torrential rains that had flooded out several fields.
The farmers had put their heads together to solve the problem, which James had thought was a good thing, but he had been surprised when they had not continued afterward.
It was clever of Frances to see the problem and spearhead its solution.
He had meant what he said to her—she did surprise him. Not only in the way she had spoken to Franklin and stood up for young Benjamin, but also in the way she managed the farmers.
Every day this week, she had ridden out and spoken to them. Not that he heard this from her. They barely spoke after all.
But James heard from Franklin. He heard from Morrison, the new steward, who had started the previous week. And he was impressed. His wife had accomplished in a fortnight what he had failed to accomplish in years. If he was impressed, perhaps Somerset Trust would be impressed as well.
“I am surprised that you speak up for her, given how she dressed you down.”
“It was a dressing-down I needed,” Franklin said. “I had quite forgotten my compassion and empathy, I will admit. She reminded me of when I was a lad here—lost and alone, without a friend to count on. I will do better.”
James smiled. “Well, that is good to hear. I did think you were a little harsh with the boy.”
“And yet you said nothing.”
“And yet I said nothing, and my wife did after only a short while here. How long has it been? A fortnight?”
“About that, yes,” Franklin said. “She is quite something, Her Grace.”
“Yes,” James agreed quietly. “Yes, she is. She is proving herself a true duchess, whether she believes it or not.”
“Perhaps you ought to tell her so.”
James nodded. “Perhaps I ought.”
Then, an idea came to him.
“Pray, will you deliver a note to Her Grace? Tell her that I need her in my study this afternoon.”
“For the meeting with Morrison?”
“Yes. And if they have elected Sweeting by then, have him come too.”
He leaned back as Franklin made his way out of the his chamber.
If Frances was going to assert herself, he was going to give her a chance to do so properly. And by God, she was doing it magnificently.
Frances stared at the note.
What in the world did he want now? For her to come and join a meeting?
That very morning, she had sat in as the farmers who had decided to join forces elected Ernest Sweeting as their spokesperson. He seemed capable, much more so than she had first thought when his wife had described him while getting the plow out of the mud.
But was he ready for what would be required of him tonight?
“Pray, who is Morrison?” she asked Lizette, who was busy arranging her hair in a simple updo.
“He is the new steward.”
“Yes,” she said, having heard of the man. “And he’s coming today?”
“Yes, in the late afternoon. I believe it is for tea. He and His Grace are going to talk about the farmers and Mr. Morrison’s impression of what needs to be done.”
“I see.”
Frances wondered what the man would make of her decision to insert herself into estate matters the way she had done.
And what did James make of it? He hadn’t really said anything to her about it.
“Would you send a message to the Sweeting household to let them know that I require Mr. Sweeting’s presence, and find out exactly what time this meeting is?”
Lizette nodded and hurried away.
Her hair coiffed now, Frances stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked like a duchess; that couldn’t be denied. Aunt Eugenia had sent a trunk full of clothes the previous week, items that she had ordered when she still thought Frances was staying with her for some time.
They were regal enough for a duchess, she supposed. Not that she and James ever went anywhere that would require more formal attire. They had been invited to a ball at Marianne’s home a fortnight from now, and she hoped that by then, she and James would have found a better footing.
She still remembered his words when he had caught her chastising his valet. He hadn’t been angry at all. If anything, he seemed amused. And Franklin had treated her with far more respect since.
Who knew? Perhaps all that was needed was to assert herself more to gain the respect of both her husband and his valet.
That evening, at five to five, she went downstairs to greet Ernest Sweeting. He was dressed in a tweed suit and a hat that could only be described as threadbare. But he looked well put together, even if his attire was not of the highest quality.
Still, he looked at her like a cornered animal. “Your Grace, I have only just been elected spokesperson. I do not know that I am ready to meet the new steward.”
“You were going to meet the new steward regardless,” she said. “In fact, I believe you already have?”
“I have,” he confirmed. “He stopped by the farm a few days ago and asked questions. Whether growing corn, when two others are growing the same thing, is the best use of our time and space. He is the haughty sort, as though he knows better. He’s from the north.”
“Hmm.”
She knew very well that many of the southern farmers did not think much of gentlemen from the north, and even farmers from the north. And the reverse was true as well.
“You need to project confidence,” she told him. “Just think of the fact that everybody on this estate has elected you as their spokesperson. They think highly of you, and you must protect that.”
He nodded right when the door to the study opened and James stepped out. “There you are. Both of you,” he said. “Come in, Mr. Morrison is already here.”
Frances did not like that James had welcomed the steward without including her, but since he was the Duke and she was merely his wife, it was his prerogative.
She stepped into the study and sat in the armchair, before remembering that, as a duchess, it was her duty to serve tea.
Mr. Sweeting sat stiff as an arrow in the chair closest to the fire, his hat now clutched between his hands as it balanced on his knees.
“Tea, Mr. Morrison?” she asked.
Morrison was a spry older gentleman, with more pepper than salt in his hair and beard.
He nodded. “Yes, please, Your Grace.”
She poured tea for everybody, including herself, but let them add sugar on their own. Then she sat in the chair beside Mr. Sweeting.
“Well, Mr. Morrison?” James prompted.
“Well, if His Grace does not mind, I will get right to it. I have found many issues on the estate that I seek to rectify.”
Frances crossed her legs at the ankles and held her teacup as ladylike as she could, thinking of Marianne as an example.
“First, there are too many farmers growing the same things. You need to diversify. Second, there are a number of farms in arrears. I do not think that it is very productive to allow people to stay on when they cannot pay their dues.”
Mr. Sweeting opened his mouth, took a breath, but then closed it again.
“Please, Mr. Sweeting,” Frances urged. “If you have something to contribute, we are all ears.”
He nodded once. “Well, it’s just that I know which farms you are talking about, and it is not because the owners are lazy.
Mr. Holcomb has had severe health problems, and his son just came back from fighting overseas.
He’s done his best, and now that his son is back, I am sure they will be back on their feet in no time. ”
“I see.” James looked at Frances as though he was expecting more.
What did he want from her?
“As for what is being grown, every farmer decides on their own, but we have decided to come together as a group to make decisions and suggestions. I will take it to the group, but I daresay that corn has been very productive for all of us.”
“That is true,” Frances said. “In Bedfordshire, it is not uncommon for farmers to grow the same things because they sell very well. What is the purpose of diversifying the crop if things do not sell?”
“She has a point,” James interjected. “How many farms are in arrears, Morrison?”
“Four out of thirty,” the steward replied. “One of them severely—Mr. Holcomb, as was just mentioned. The other three are behind by several months.”
“Well,” Mr. Sweeting said, “I do know the other three farms well, and there have been problems, but I am sure that we will be able to help those farmers overcome their troubles.”
“If you could do that,” Morrison asked, “why haven’t you already?”
Mr. Sweeting opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Instead, he looked at Frances.
“Because up until recently,” she heard herself say, “the farmers had not come together. Everyone worked their farms individually, but now they have decided to join forces. This is a brand new venture, which I believe should be given a chance to grow before it is entirely dismissed. We have only just started this venture a week ago. I need time for the farmers to come together and work out a plan to help one another.”
“They have worked together after the flood last year,” James added, and she was grateful for his help. “I think there might be some merit to the Duchess’s idea.”
“Well,” the steward said, “if you think so, we shall see. I do have other concerns. Structural in nature.”
“Which I believe we will be able to address,” James assured with a smile.
From there, the conversation shifted to mundane things, and Frances felt at ease. Thirty minutes later, they parted ways.
Mr. Sweeting looked a lot more relieved than he had been when he arrived, and Frances felt proud of herself for having held her own against Mr. Morrison, who had turned out not to be as horrible as she had imagined.
“Frances,” James said when she turned to leave. “Would you mind dining with me this evening? I know you usually eat in your chambers, but I would like you to dine with me tonight. I have a surprise for you.”
A surprise?
She wanted to ask what he had planned, but his tone told her that perhaps the surprise was not meant for her.
“I suppose,” she replied.
“Good. I shall see you in the dining room at eight o’clock.”
At ten to eight, she stood in front of the dining room door, peering inside. James was not yet there, but she quickly realized what the surprise was about. For on the table were not two place settings, but three, and they were all arranged near the head of the table.
They were going to have a guest.
She could not imagine who it might be. In fact, she had never met any of his other relations or friends, nor had he spoken of any. There were portraits hanging in the gallery, but they were all of dead ancestors.
“Frances,” he said as he came down the stairs.
She glanced up and noticed that he looked somewhat lighter than he had earlier. He wore a simple pair of pantaloons and a purple waistcoat over his shirt. His hair was not combed back neatly as usual.
“Who is the guest?” she asked.
He smiled. “You will see. Well, I suppose we should go inside. They will be coming with the soup very soon.”