Chapter Five
The last of the morning mist still clung to the grounds of Alverton Grange as Charlotte guided her mare along the estate’s main road. A groom followed at a discreet distance, his presence both proper chaperone and practical necessity as she learned the boundaries of her new home.
Her first week as Duchess had settled into a careful routine.
Mornings were spent with Mrs Walden, learning the intricacies of household management in this very large estate.
Afternoons often found her writing letters or making the first of her social calls on neighbouring families.
Evenings brought formal dinners with William, followed occasionally by shared time in the library, though he frequently excused himself to work in his study instead.
Today, however, she had risen early, determined to see more of the estate’s outer reaches.
The tenant cottages particularly interested her - their condition would tell her much about both the estate’s prosperity and its master’s priorities.
As they rounded a bend in the road, a small stone cottage came into view.
Charlotte drew her horse to a halt, frowning at the obvious disrepair before her.
The roof clearly leaked - she could see patches where the thatch had worn thin - and one window was roughly boarded over rather than provided with solid shutters.
“Thompson,” she called to the groom, “whose cottage is this?”
“That’d be Widow Morris’ place, Your Grace. She lives there with her daughter and son-in-law, Tom Fletcher. He works the home farm.”
Charlotte studied the building with growing concern. The stone walls were solid enough, but years of neglect showed in every sagging beam and crumbling bit of mortar. How had this escaped William’s notice during his restoration of the estate?
“Do all the tenant cottages require such attention?”
“Some are better, some worse, Your Grace.” Thompson shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “His Grace has focused on getting the farms productive again, meaning to see to the cottages once the estate’s income was more secure.”
A practical approach, Charlotte supposed, but surely now that Alverton’s prosperity was restored, such basic repairs should take priority? The autumn rains would only make that roof worse, and winter would bring harsh winds through that broken window.
She turned her mare back towards the house, her mind already forming plans. William usually spent his mornings in his study - perhaps he would be willing to discuss the matter now, before his day became too crowded with other concerns.
*****
“Absolutely not.” William’s tone brooked no argument as he looked up from his correspondence. “The harvest preparations must take priority. We can consider cottage repairs once the crops are in.”
Charlotte stood before his desk, her riding habit still dusty from her morning exploration.
“But surely some immediate attention to the worst problems wouldn’t significantly impact the harvest budget? The Morris cottage’s roof-”
“Will last another season.” William’s quill scratched across paper with decisive strokes. “I’m well aware of the cottage’s condition, Charlotte. Everything on this estate is carefully monitored and maintained according to priority.”
“Priority?” Charlotte fought to keep her voice level. “Is not the basic comfort and safety of your tenants a priority?”
William set down his quill, his grey eyes hardening.
“The best way to ensure their comfort and safety is to maintain the estate’s productivity. Sentimental impulses must not override practical considerations.”
“Sentimental impulses?” Charlotte felt heat rise in her cheeks. “Your Grace, there is nothing sentimental about wanting to prevent rain from soaking a family’s beds! Widow Morris’ daughter has a young child, and that roof-”
“Has been adequately patched for the current season.” William rose from his chair, his height lending additional authority to his stern tone. “I do not make decisions about this estate’s resources without careful consideration, madam.”
The formal address stung.
“I am not suggesting that you do. But surely now that Alverton’s finances are secure-”
“Secure?” William’s laugh held no humour. “Do you imagine that six years of careful management have erased generations of debt? That we can suddenly indulge in every charitable impulse that catches your fancy?”
“Charitable impulse?” Charlotte’s own temper flared. “Is that how you see basic maintenance of your tenants’ homes? As charity?”
“I see it as one of many competing demands on limited resources.” William began to pace behind his desk.
“The home farm needs new equipment before harvest. The south field’s drainage requires attention before autumn planting.
The mill wheel’s bearing is showing signs of wear.
Would you have me neglect these vital repairs in favour of a roof that, while not perfect, remains functional? ”
“I would have you consider that every delay in maintaining the cottages only increases the eventual cost of repairs,” Charlotte countered. “And that healthy, comfortable tenants are more productive than those distracted by domestic hardships.”
William stopped pacing to stare at her. For a moment, something like surprise flickered in his expression before his stern mask returned.
“You sound like your father.”
“The Earl of Westbridge’s estates are among the most profitable in England,” Charlotte pointed out. “Perhaps his methods deserve consideration.”
“His methods require capital we do not currently have at our disposal.” William’s tone grew clipped. “I will not risk this estate’s stability on untested theories.”
“Untested?” Charlotte fought to keep her voice steady despite her rising frustration. “Father has demonstrated the effectiveness of-”
“Enough!” William’s palm slapped against his desk. “I am master here, madam, and I will make decisions about this estate’s management as I see fit. Your duty is to oversee the household and maintain appropriate social connections. I suggest that you confine yourself to those responsibilities.”
The words struck like physical blows. Charlotte felt colour drain from her face as she drew herself up to her full height.
“I see. Thank you for making my position so very clear, Your Grace.”
She turned and walked from the study, her back rigid with hurt pride.
Only when she reached her own sitting room did she allow her careful composure to crack.
Charlotte sank into a chair, her hands trembling with suppressed emotion.
How dare he dismiss her concerns so completely?
Yet even through her indignation, she could not forget the brief flash of vulnerability she’d glimpsed when he’d spoken of the estate’s debts.
There was more to his stubborn refusal than mere high-handedness, she was certain of it.
A gentle tap at her door heralded Mrs Walden. The housekeeper entered bearing a tea tray, her expression suggesting that she had anticipated her mistress’ need for solace.
“I took the liberty, Your Grace,” she said, setting out the china with practiced efficiency. “A cup of tea often helps one see matters more clearly.”
Charlotte accepted the offered cup, its familiar warmth somehow comforting.
“Tell me truthfully, Mrs Walden - am I quite wrong to be concerned about the tenant cottages?”
The housekeeper hesitated, choosing her words with care.
“His Grace has worked tirelessly to restore Alverton’s prosperity, my Lady. Perhaps he fears any deviation from his careful plans might threaten that recovery.”
“But surely some repairs need not threaten the entire estate’s stability?” Charlotte set her cup down with a faint click. “I cannot believe that maintaining proper homes for our tenants would lead to ruin.”
“If I might speak freely?” At Charlotte’s nod, Mrs Walden continued. “His Grace was very young when he inherited. The burden of saving Alverton fell entirely on his shoulders, with creditors clamouring at every turn. Such experiences leave their mark on a man’s character.”
Charlotte considered this.
“He fears taking any risk, however small.”
“He fears failing those who depend upon him,” Mrs Walden corrected gently. “As master of Alverton, his every decision affects not just the family’s fortunes, but the livelihood of every soul on the estate.”
The observation gave Charlotte pause. She had witnessed her father’s careful management of their own estates, but he had inherited a prosperous holding, not one teetering on the brink of ruin.
What must it have been like for William, at not even twenty, faced with salvaging generations of prosperity from his father’s wreckage?
Still, she could not forget the sight of that sagging roof, that boarded window. There must be some way to address such basic needs without threatening William’s carefully constructed stability.
“I had thought,” Charlotte said quietly, “that as his Duchess, I might be of some assistance in managing the estate’s affairs. That perhaps two minds might find solutions where one alone might falter.”
Mrs Walden poured a fresh cup of tea.
“If I might suggest, Your Grace - His Grace responds well to carefully reasoned arguments, particularly when supported by precise figures. He has little patience for appeals to sentiment, but show him how a proposal might benefit the estate’s prosperity...”
Charlotte straightened in her chair.
“Mrs Walden, would you happen to know if the household accounts from before the late Duke’s passing are still preserved?”
“I believe that Mr Phillips maintains records going back some thirty years, Your Grace. Though I’m not certain that His Grace would approve of you examining such papers.”
“I have no wish to pry into painful matters,” Charlotte assured her. “I merely wonder if understanding how the estate’s resources were previously allocated might help in forming more persuasive proposals for current improvements.”
The housekeeper’s expression held cautious approval.